


Returning Tides

by Zigster



Series: Care of Magical Creatures and Joy Division [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Animagus, Bonding, Bonds, Brief mention of animal peril, Chapter Two:, Everyone is thirsty for Charlie Weasley because why not, F/M, Familial Angst, Flying motorbike sex, Getting Back Together, Irish setting - Aran islands, M/M, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Non-Linear Storyline, Scorpius is a good son, Second Chances, Sirius’ flying motorbike, Teddy is a good godson, Thestrals, Veela, minor character death (off screen), reconnecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24777889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/pseuds/Zigster
Summary: Harry hasn’t set foot on English soil for over twenty years and he never plans to return. The possibility that one person, in particular, would actually come looking for him never crossed his mind.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Scorpius Malfoy, Draco Malfoy/Gabrielle Delacour (past), Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley, Harry Potter & Charlie Weasley
Series: Care of Magical Creatures and Joy Division [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1879222
Comments: 57
Kudos: 196
Collections: HD Wireless 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CheekyTorah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheekyTorah/gifts).



> Written for the song prompt 'Love Will Tear Us Apart' by Joy Division 
> 
> The lyrics in the summary were written by Ian Curtis 
> 
> Endless thanks to my beta readers C, T, and J! Between the constant emotional support and encouragement you've given me, I've developed a codependent bond with you three that I now need to be weened off of . . . you're all too precious for words! Thank you.

* * *

Harry stands on the edge of a vast limestone cliff. It cuts a jagged line across the horizon, much like the scar etched into the weathered skin of his furrowed brow. Cascades of crumbling rock tumble down towards the tumultuous tides of the Atlantic below. Bitter gusts of whip-sharp wind surge up from the waves to tug at his unruly black curls, the leather tie holding them back ineffectual against the elements. He takes the full brunt of the gale coating him in the stinging mist of the sea spray as he gazes out at the rippling black water and the quicksilver clouds. He doesn’t allow himself to look away, not wanting to miss a moment of the vast expanse that unfolds before him, a constant horizon and an ever-changing tide. 

Harry’s stood watch on this cliff at the start of every summer for twelve years now. He waits, wand at the ready and broom clutched tightly in his hand, as the new Thestral foals take their ritual leap of faith off the rock with their mothers leading the way. It’s both a terrifying tradition and an exhilarating phenomenon to witness and Harry knows his accepted presence during this ancient right of passage is a sign of true kinship between him and his unconventional herd. He is both stallion and protector to this motley crew of Thestral strays and their well-being has become his life’s work. 

The Sanctuary, as Hermione insists on calling it (for tax or grant purposes, some nonsense Harry refuses to listen to) sits within the magical borders of The Black Fort on Cill Éinne. Harry has owned this strip of craggy rockland since the age of 16 when Sirius’ will revealed that all of his earthly possessions had passed to Harry. No one knew at the time that The Black Fort wasn’t the treetop hideout in the back garden of Grimmauld Place, but an ancient ruin located on Inishmore off the coast of Galway Bay. In a funny twist of coincidence, the term ‘The Black Fort’ happened to be an English translation of Dún Dúchathair, which referred to the dark colour of the rock on the island and had nothing to do with the Blacks at all, except for the fact that somewhere along the ancestral line someone decided to make an impulse purchase. 

Harry had discovered this revelatory distinction one fateful day in his early twenties. He’d been reading through Sirius’ old diaries in the attic of Grimmauld Place, feeling lost and alone, when a deed slipped free from the pages, written entirely in Irish and smelling of peat smoke. A quick translation charm later and Harry sat back on his haunches, laughing. He was covered in dust, his tear-streaked face puffy and glasses smudged, browbeaten and utterly depressed and yet, all this time, he’d owned land in Ireland and had never known. Sirius had somehow managed, even in death, to give him something to distract him from his darker thoughts, and for that, Harry was eternally grateful. 

A week later, he broke the news to his friends. He planned to quit England for good. Ireland had never taken anything from Harry. No one he knew had died on its shores, nor promised him happiness only to rip it away again. Ireland was a mystery to him. A clean slate.

“You can’t leave,” Hermione had said, clutching hard at his shoulders. 

“Can’t stay,” he responded, head bowed. 

“Ron, tell him.” 

Ron hadn’t. Instead, Ron hugged him fiercely, said to keep in touch, and poured Harry another shot of firewhiskey. “You do what you need to, mate. We’ll always be here.” 

Harry hasn’t set foot on English soil for over twenty years, and Ron’s promise has remained true all that time. The Weasleys have split their holidays between the island and the Burrow for as long as Harry can remember and the kids have all spent at least two weeks out of their summer holidays here since they’ve been old enough to fly on the back of a Thestral, or in Victoire, Dominique, and Louis’ case an equipage led by a team of giant winged palominos, courtesy of Madame Maxine. Despite Harry’s determination to remain isolated, he’s never felt alone. 

Behind him, he hears a whoo-weee as Teddy shoots forward on his Firebolt, his flaming red hair flying out behind him on the wind, the perpetual streak of inky black glinting in contrast in the bright morning sun. 

“Easy now!” Harry calls out to him as Teddy dives under a struggling foal, encouraging her flight with a burst of cool air from his wand. Harry shakes his head at Teddy’s antics, but he’s unable to help the smile that crosses his face. Teddy’s never been able to watch the young ones struggle, always rushing out to aid them in their flight back towards the cliff’s edge. Unlike Harry, who took to heart everything Charlie taught him all those years back when they’d started this venture, emphasising that, yes, the young ones needed guidance “but their independence is the most important, Harry. Can’t care for ‘em too much, else they’ll never truly be free.” 

* * *

  
  
Harry shoves a rough shoulder into the splintering wood of the faded green door and miraculously, it shifts. They’d been working at the locks with magic for the better part of an hour but something had told Harry perhaps a different approach was needed. One less polite. 

“Oi!” he hears behind him as Ron comes running around the side of the cottage at the sound, Hermione in tow. “What happened?” They ask in unison. 

“I got it!” Harry shouts, pushing hard on the ancient wood of the door, hearing it creak beneath his fingers. 

“Brilliant. How’d you get it open?” 

“Brute force.” With a final heaving shove and an ominous scrape against the flagstones the door springs free of its long-lodged position, opening up into a dusty main room of the thatched cottage the Black family has apparently owned for generations. 

“Huh,” Ron says, hands on his hips. “Bit of a fixer, innit?” 

Harry doesn’t respond. Instead, he steps across the threshold, feeling the ancient magic wash over him in a welcome embrace. The air is dank and the room is dark and there’s a thick coat of dust upon every surface and yet Harry can’t help but smile. Unlike Grimmauld Place with its endless, meandering halls, and generations of pureblood history woven into the very fabric of its foundation, this place is . . . settled. Calm. Wholly accepting of Harry and his presence within its walls. 

Harry’s grin widens. “It’s perfect.” 

He turns to his friends, standing silhouetted in the doorway behind him, twin looks of solemn resignation on their faces. 

“You’re really not coming back, are you?” 

Still smiling, Harry shakes his head. “Nope.” 

Hermione nods. “It’s home, isn’t it?” 

Harry is moving before he even realises, pulling her to him in a giant bear of a hug as Ron shouts another “oi” at their backs. 

“Thank you, Hermione,” he whispers, buried in the dark brown curls of her hair. 

“For what?” 

“For saying it.” Home. 

Hermione doesn’t respond, just squeezes him tighter. He can feel the hitch of her breath and the warmth of her tears as they begin to soak into the thinning wool of his jumper. He rubs her back and doesn’t let go. 

“You two about done?” 

“Shut it, Ron,” she says, muffled into Harry’s shoulder. 

Harry looks up at Ron, still standing in the doorway, his brow creased, arms crossed. “I love you, too, mate. Always.” 

Ron nods. “Damn right.” He pushes off the door jam and heads back out to their packs they’d brought with them on the boat across from the mainland. “I’m getting a drink.” 

“Me too?” Harry calls after him. He sees Ron flip him a two-fingered salute through the warped glass of the leaded front window and laughs, revelling in the swelling of joy within him. He and Hermione break their embrace, wiping snotty noses on dusty sleeves before turning from each other, no words needed, and beginning the process of cleaning the old cottage of decades worth of neglect. 

* * *

The sun is warm on Harry’s skin as he stretches, luxuriating in its surprise appearance on what was supposed to be a dreary May morning. 

“You’re like a damn kneazle,” Draco says, voice muffled from his position on Harry’s chest. 

“S’warm.”

“How apt an observation, Potter. Your powers of deduction are a true gift.” 

Harry smiles at the fondness in Draco’s voice. The sneering curled lip of their school days is long gone from his tone. 

The air around them is heady with the scent of sweat and skin. It presses in on Harry in a comforting way, weighing his limbs down into the tangled sheets like a thick winter duvet. He knows they should get up, start the day, have a shower, but he doesn’t want to shake this feeling just yet—this bone-deep contentment that’s stolen over their little haven, seeped into the floorboards and the window panes, filling the room with a sense of relaxed, reassuring peace. 

“We can’t just lie here all day,” Draco sighs, sounding for all the world like that's exactly what he wants to do. Harry doesn’t blame him. He shakes his head, a slow movement back and forth across his pillow. 

“This is thoroughly undignified,” he yawns, curling further into Harry’s side. 

“Mmmm,” Harry hums, his smile broadening as his hand moves to stroke Draco’s hair. It’s grown long and sleek in the four years since the war. Harry likes the way it looks fanned across his bedsheets or, on occasion, wrapped around his fist. 

Harry pets Draco’s hair and listens to his gentle sighs as Draco breathes deep and warm against Harry’s chest. The tickle of Draco’s long fingers snake low across his stomach, tracing patterns onto Harry’s skin. He’s murmuring words Harry can’t hear but they’re soothing when paired with the tease of his fingertips. 

“You’re a ball of light,” Draco says, several minutes later. 

Harry licks his lips, his brain sluggish from sleep. “Hmmm?” 

“In my mind. You’re a warm light. I can see it.” 

“Really.” Harry lifts his head to look down at Draco’s pale hair, the sharp line of his cheekbone, the startlingly beautiful sight of his cream-coloured complexion highlighted against his own darker skin. 

“It’s been there a while now.” 

There is more to these words than Draco is letting on and Harry holds him closer on instinct. 

“You mean—” 

“Like Fleur and Bill?” Draco’s smiling, coy and hidden against Harry’s side. “Yes.” 

Harry feels his heart kick in his chest at the confirmation. His breath coming faster, blood rushing through his veins with extra purpose. He pulls Draco on top of him, holds his face in his hands. 

“You’re saying—”

“That you’re stuck with me now.” Draco tucks his chin to kiss Harry’s palm, his lips warm against Harry’s skin.

Harry grins, closes his eyes and focuses. There, along the edge of his blackened vision he sees it, like a sun cresting the horizon line on the water, a small light floating in the darkness. It’s faint; a glowing ember of a beginning flame, but it’s there—tangible and real. Harry moves, threading his hand through Draco’s hair and pulling his mouth down to his, fierce and hungry. 

Draco shifts his body back, his hand moving between them, searching. 

“You can’t possibly—“ Harry begins to say but cuts off on a gasp as Draco grips him in a tight, slippery fist, shocking him silent. 

Humming, Draco grins, wicked and wild, his eyes dark, knowing he’ll soon get his way. Harry’s already growing hard from the feel of Draco’s cool fingers alone. 

“Neat trick, that,” he says, closing his eyes and rolling his hips into the rhythm of Draco’s pleasantly slick hand. 

“Every schoolboy should know it.” 

“You’ll have to teach me.” 

Harry feels a nip against his neck and arches off the bed. Draco shifts to sit astride him, long pale limbs weighing Harry into the warm sheets, the space between their bodies slowly disappearing as Draco lowers himself down, down . . . down. 

“Oh god.” Harry lets his head fall back onto the pillows, already spent from earlier in the morning yet forever hungry for the feeling of Draco hot and impossibly tight around him. 

“So greedy,” he says, his hands moving to rest on Draco’s slight hips, fingers digging into perfectly pale skin. 

Grinning, Draco shifts. “Like you aren’t.” 

Harry grunts out a laugh, his breathing coming too quick at the sight before him. Draco is the epitome of every sexual fantasy Harry’s schoolboy self could ever muster—the sharp blades of his hips jutting forward, the line of his neck pale and long, asking to be marked with bites and too-rough kisses. 

Draco’s stomach muscles tense on a gasp as he finally comes to rest against Harry’s hips. Elegant hands move to Harry’s chest, fingernails scratching over the hair he finds there, teasing. It tickles. Harry can see the strain in Draco’s face, the beads of sweat on his brow, he’s holding back from what he wants, and Harry can’t have that. He tugs on Draco’s arms, pulling him forward so Harry can brace his legs against the duvet and take control. 

“Let me,” he tells him, kissing his temple, and Draco sighs, burying his face into Harry’s neck as Harry begins to move at a languid pace–long, smooth strokes. 

Draco is practically whimpering. Hot puffs of air ghost Harry’s throat as whispered words tumble out of Draco’s mouth at rapid speed. Harry gathers all of Draco's lovely long hair into a single fist and pulls, moving Draco’s saliva-slick mouth to where he needs it; where he wants it most. 

“Fuck,” Harry says, teeth biting into his lip. “Draco, fuck, it’s…” 

“I know.” Draco nods, then kisses a bruise onto Harry’s jaw. 

“I can see it,” Harry pants, blinking against the light now consuming him. Gone is the pinprick on the horizon of his mind’s eye, now there seems to be an entire sun coalescing in the confined space of their bedroom, hanging in a liquid gold orb above them, urging them forward, faster, harder. 

“It’s you. It’s always been you.” 

Draco bites down hard on Harry’s neck, his body going taut above him, pulled tight like a wire ready to snap. 

“Fuck, I need… Harry, I need.” 

Harry sits up, pulling Draco with him, bracing a hand behind him for support as Draco gets his legs around him, balanced on the bed. Their bodies are so close they slip against each other with mingled sweat. 

“You need this,” Harry is saying as he pulls Draco’s hair back, displaying his throat for Harry to bite and suck as he thrusts into him, hard and demanding, just how Draco likes it. “You need me.” 

“Yes! You, Harry. Always you,” Draco careens on top of him, his body going wild with motion, taking over the rhythm, notching it up to a bruising pace. “Say it back.” 

Harry blinks, shocked by the look of pure need in Draco’s eyes. His hands have come up to play in Harry’s hair, and he tugs to punctuate his command as he slams his hips down against Harry’s. “Say it back, Potter,” he spits with a devilish grin. 

“Oh fuck,” Harry curses, his balls tightening. “You, Draco. It’s always been you.” 

“Yes,” Draco cries out, the harsh lines of his face softening into the pleasure of the moment. He leans away, tipping himself back onto the bed and Harry follows. 

After all, wherever Draco goes, Harry has always followed. 

* * *

Bill stands in stoic silence behind Fleur at the table, a reassuring hand pressed gently on her shoulder, forefinger curling absently in a lock of her blonde hair. Draco has always noticed their incredible awareness of each other, knows it’s the bond of their love that allows for this constant affection and aches inside as a flash of black hair curled around his own pale fingers jumps to the forefront of his mind. He tightens his hand in Gabrielle’s and she looks at him with joy shining in her eyes, and he envies her purity and unconditional kindness. He doesn’t deserve her, yet from the first moment she’d entered his life, her presence created a stability he hadn’t felt since being tucked into the warmth and safety of his childhood bed as a boy. Gabrielle, without even knowing it came to symbolise the series of stitches that pulled the tethered strands of Draco’s broken life back together. The fact that he’d been the one to do the breaking was hastily repressed, along with the guilt he felt at that truth. There wasn’t time for dwelling on such thoughts now. 

Gabrielle shifts, leaning over Draco to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear that had fallen loose from its plait. Draco smiles at her, the amber glow of her aura sliding over him like golden honey, endlessly soothing and sweet. 

“Will you bless our betrothal?” she asks her sister. 

Fleur’s answering smile is a lament. Her eyes are so filled with sorrow Draco’s throat tightens with responding emotion. Fleur nods through her tears, holding their hands tightly in her own and speaking rapidly in watery French about the beauty of a Veela’s love and how fulfilling their lives will be with each other as bonded mates. 

Draco has never liked the word mate. It’s common and gauche and not a befitting moniker at all for the gift that is Gabrielle. She is charm and class and cleverness wrapped up into a delightful package brimming with energy and interest and grace. Draco wants her as his partner, as his equal to walk through life with, not his mate. Mates are to drink pints with in pubs, Gabrielle and their bonding union is to be toasted with nothing less than the best champagne Malfoy galleons can buy.

Fleur interrupts his thoughts, “you will love the Muggle cathedral in Chartres, Draco, c’est magnifique! A perfect mixture of early and late Gothic architecture…” 

Draco’s attention trails off as Fleur continues to boast in rapturous tones about the beauty of the small village where she and Bill had renewed their vows. He’s turned toward Gabrielle, watching her watch him with those deeply assessing hazel eyes that seem to know so much while asking so little in return. He loves her for that, for the ease that she brings into his life, the calm acceptance and comfort her presence wraps around him. He tips forward and buries his face into her neck, allowing the curtain of his blond hair to hide him. He can feel her laughter resonate through her throat as she holds him close and tells her sister how much of a cuddler he is, her voice fond. He basks in the warmth of the smells and sounds around him: lavender and fresh mint for the hearty lamb roasting in the oven and the tang of the rosé Gabrielle is sipping. This is a home so filled with love he’s weak from the daydream of being accepted inside its walls. 

“I love you,” Draco breathes into Gabrielle’s skin.

She squeezes him in return, nodding her head against him. The words are unspoken but he hears them just the same, their bond already growing from a small pinprick of light in Draco’s mind to a glowing ball of warmth and ease. He smiles again, pushing away the last tendrils of black hair that haunt his thoughts and focuses instead on the soft sandy curls tucked behind Gabrielle’s delicate ear. He tells himself that he’s never felt more content, and in that moment, he knows it to be true. 

* * *

“You sure about this, Harry?” 

Harry nods as he continues to pore over the books Hermione has brought him, his elbows digging into the smooth wood of the ancient tabletop as his tea steeps beside him. Hermione sits across from him worrying her hands, her omnipresent beaded bag filled with all the things a person could possibly need for a weekend holiday tucked within, no doubt. Ron sits next to him, stoic and silent. They’d handed Harry the books on Animagus transformation as soon as they’d stepped through his kitchen door, windswept and smelling of salt air from their journey. Harry pulled both of them into a bear of a hug and then quickly set the kettle to boiling. Charlie had appeared not two minutes later, pouring drams of whisky into each of their cups, announcing that their arrival warranted a celebration. 

“It’s not every day we get visitors at the Sanctuary.” 

Ron slaps his brother on the back in greeting before pulling him into a hug. Hermione smiles, “Thank you, Charlie.” 

Harry nods along but for the most part ignores their pleasantries as they all catch up and discuss Charlie’s impending trip back to Romania, too engrossed in the words in front of him. The beginning stages of the transformation process are complicated and utterly insane, according to Aldamova’s Annotated and Articulated Animagus but he understands the theory. His father did this, he can do it too. 

“That’s a long time to go without speakin’,” Charlie mentions, leaning over Harry, his ponytail falling into Harry’s face as he hovers to read. 

Harry bats it away. “And how much do you normally hear me speak, Charlie?” 

Charlie and Ron both snort. “Fair point.” 

“I have no doubt that you can do this, Harry.” Hermione starts. 

“Agreed,” he interrupts.

“I just want to make sure you’re certain.” 

“I want to run with my herd, Hermione,” he says, stating the wish he’s harboured ever since he’d discovered the Thestral foals eating squash from his back garden, and inevitably, started caring for them. Seeing their numbers grow, enough to create The Sanctuary in the first place, only solidified this yearning. It’s been four years. He wants to evolve with them. 

“Flying isn’t enough?” Ron asks, his voice tentative as if he already knows the answer. 

“Has it ever been?” 

Ron nods. “Yeah. You always want more.” 

Harry looks sideways at him. “What does that mean?” 

The question is met with a shrug. “It means you’re not one to settle. You know that, mate.” 

“It’s not a bad thing, Harry,” Hermione says, earnest. 

“I didn’t take offence.” 

“Good.” 

“Just, is it wrong to want more?” Harry asks, splaying his hands.

Hermione’s face crumples with resigned understanding across from them. She takes a sip of her tea and shakes her head, determination resolving in her eyes. “No, it isn’t, Harry.”

The wood of Ron’s chair creaks as he sits back, sighing heavily. “Oh, now you’ve done it.”

“Done what?” Harry asks. 

“I was worried this would happen,” Ron laments with a soft chuckle. 

“What would happen?” 

“She’s gonna do it with you.” 

Harry’s eyes go wide. “What?”

Hermione looks at Ron, her expression pointed before turning back to Harry. “When you asked for the books, Harry, I became curious. Naturally I had to read them first in order to ensure their quality. That research got me thinking—”

“What about Rose?” Harry blurts, immediately wondering how a parent could undergo this process with little ones running around. 

Hermione scoffs. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. She has her father, and her grandparents. My not talking for a month will be a reprieve to them, if anything.” 

Ron hides a snort behind his hand. Charlie claps him on the back as if he’s been seized with a coughing fit and is in need of immediate and violent brotherly assistance. Ron punches him in response. 

Ignoring this, Hermione asks, “What about Teddy?” 

Harry sighs, feeling scolded. “You know, I did plan ahead for this, Hermione. He’s with Andromeda.” 

She folds her arms and nods, staring him down despite conceding to his point. Harry drops his palms to the table and stares right back. After a few moments Hermione kicks his shin and Harry jumps, blinking. 

Mouth pulling at a reluctant smile, Harry says, “Gods, you’re stubborn,” as he sits back in his chair. 

Hermione grins. “So are you.” 

“Well, then. I suppose we should put our hard-headed natures to good use.” 

“Yes. Let’s.” 

Beside them, Charlie and Ron simultaneously reach for the nearest bottle of Ogden’s in brotherly commiseration as Harry and Hermione clink their teacups together. 

* * *

The evening has descended into the decadent kind of chaos that any good wizarding marriage should aspire to once the stores of elf wine have been exhausted and the elders have bid their leave. Hogwarts and Beauxbaton graduates circle around them, along with weaving bobs of blond and ginger heads in varying states of drunk and disorderly. Broad smiling faces and roaming hands abound, clinking champagne flutes and kissing too-pink cheeks flushed from the press of bodies and the joy of celebration. 

Fairy lights twinkle above, mingled with the floating candles that hover just out of reach, their wax spelled to disappear before it can drip onto any of the lovely ladies’ silks and organza robes below. Draco feels a warmth in the pit of his stomach that signals his own inebriation and he revels in the freedom it gives him. He buries his head into Gabrielle’s shoulder, smiling against the heat of her pearlescent skin. She smells like the lilies in her hair and the lavender flowers sewn onto the hem of her skirts. As they’ve danced and held each other throughout the evening, Draco’s dress robes crush against the satin of Gabrielle’s gown, releasing the scent of the lavender oils from the pressed petals, perfuming the air with their floral grandeur. Draco will never be able to see a lavender field again without smiling at the memory of such a delightful detail. He makes a mental note to send a bonus to Gabrielle’s seamstress. 

“You’re radiant,” he tells her for the tenth time. She laughs, pressing a warm hand against his chest. 

“You’re drunk.” 

He nods, grinning. “Well spotted, pet.” 

“Are you happy, husband?” 

Draco holds her tighter on instinct. “So much so that I’m terrified of waking up and discovering this was all a dream.” 

A small crease appears between Gabrielle’s light blonde brows. “Do you want to wake up, Draco?” 

Shutting his eyes tight he whispers, “never.” 

“Then dance some more with me. We’ll sleep forever together, my love.” 

He smiles and twirls her into the centre of the floor once more, his heart heavy with love and regret mingled together in a painful, inseparable web of emotion within him—a snarled tangle he’ll never be able to worry apart. He doesn’t deserve this woman, their bond, their future life full of amber light and honeyed happiness, and yet here he is living a fantasy, holding Gabrielle in his arms with fairy lights glowing gold and purple and blue all around them. 

* * *

The ringing in Draco’s ears reaches a fever pitch before all sound coalesces down to a single moment happening before he can stop it. Scorpius has thrown a picture frame against the wall just behind Draco’s bowed head. He knows the subject of that image better than he knows his own mind in that moment and shoots up from the table with inhuman speed. He’s glaring daggers at Scorpius within a second of the glass shattering, the tattered image of his son’s beloved mother floating to the ground like a dried leaf on a breeze. Draco flicks his wrist and the frame, picture, and glass are instantly restored and righted once again on the grand piano where it belongs. 

“I should strike you for that,” he seethes, his rage consuming him beyond all reason. 

Scorpius doesn’t even blink at the sight of his father’s anger. He’s more Veela than Draco and Gabrielle ever were and he wears that knowledge like a suit of the finest elf-made armour, fiercely and with a confidence that Draco has never been able to possess. 

He squares his shoulders, defiant and strong. “You wouldn’t.” 

Draco takes a step forward and sees the flash of pure animalistic fire awaken in Scorpius’ eyes at the movement. Draco immediately recoils, contorting in on himself and scratching at his own face, instead, turning from his son. He moves away, ripping a hand through his tangled hair, ashamed. 

His voice breaks as he says, “Your mother deserved better than to be treated—“ 

“Maman is dead.” 

Scorpius’ voice is so cold Draco staggers back with the pain that slices through him. He doubles over at the reminder that she’s gone, the glowing light inside his mind’s eye growing ever dimmer with the passing of days, weeks, months. He squeezes his eyes shut, desperate to keep that flame alive, wondering if it’s Gabrielle holding onto him, or if it’s his own growing madness coming to claim him like so many others of the Black line. 

“Fleur warned me of this,” Scorpius says, but Draco is barely listening, he needs to feel the warmth of that light again. Seeks it, reaches out… but it’s not Gabrielle’s hand who clasps hold of his own. 

“Papa,” Scorpius is speaking again, this time right in his ear, soft and kind, all malice and chill gone from his tone. He’s wrapped Draco up in his arms and it strikes Draco to realise that Scorpius is taller than him, his arms longer, more secure than Draco’s weakened frame. He sags into his son’s embrace, feeling thankful and so full of sorrow that he could bury himself with his own shame at how he’s been acting. 

Draco can’t do this. He misses her too much. It’s too much. 

“I miss her too, every day. Every minute.” Scorpius soothes, reading his pain like an open letter left carelessly on a desk. 

“I should have—“ Draco starts but Scorpius shushes him. 

“—you did all that you could.” 

“No, I didn’t.” 

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

“Yes—“

“No. It wasn’t.” 

Scorpius is rocking him now, like a child, their roles completely reversed and Draco adds a new level to his guilt. He’s failed his son in so many ways since Gabrielle’s untimely death. So many ways. 

“No one blames you. Fleur has written to you a hundred times over saying as much. She misses you, Papa. Bill misses you. I miss you.” 

Draco lets out a dry sob, silent into his son’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he mouths, his voice forgotten. 

“You can make this up to me. You will. And then there will be no need to apologize ever again. Do you hear me?” 

Draco is nodding, agreeing to anything, hoping his son will still love him after all the grief he’s put him through. The war is decades past, life is supposed to be filled with love and easy Sunday mornings complete with hot coffee and fresh crepes doused in chocolate, not this endless loss. Draco can’t take any more loss. 

Scorpius’s soft voice cuts through Draco’s thoughts once more, he’s mentioning something about a trip, a sanctuary, and Hermione at the Ministry and Draco looks up, blinking owlishly at his son. 

“What?” 

“I’m sending you on a trip, Papa.” 

“I don’t want to go on a trip.” 

Scorpius smirks at him and it’s such a familiar look, Draco blinks in shock over the realisation that his son has become a perfect twin of himself at twenty two. 

“It’s all been booked.” 

“No,” Draco is shaking his head as the crack of their house elf, Pip, Apparates into the parlour. 

“Pip should be readying Master’s trunks now, young Master Scorpius?” 

“Yes, Pip, thank you.” 

Pip bows low, ears touching the shined herringbone pattern of the old floors before Disapparating with a pop. 

“You’ve planned this?” 

Scorpius is nodding. “Have done, for days now.” 

“But, I can’t leave... your—“ 

“Maman is gone.” Scorpius pulls him into another hug. “She would never have allowed you to continue like this for this long. She was stronger than me, no doubt, but I’m done.” 

“Done?” Draco repeats, the finality of the word hitting him hard in the chest. 

“I won’t watch you kill yourself.” 

Draco moves to retort, but Scorpius holds him by the shoulders and glares at him. A silent conversation passes between them. One too full of harsh reality to speak aloud. His son knows him too well, and Draco is too cowardly to admit that he’d been hoping for death… encouraging its inevitability, courting it, even. The war inside him between losing Gabrielle and remaining behind to care for his son has been shredding him in two all these months, and it seems he’s done a poor job of hiding the pull he’s felt in the darker direction. 

Draco hangs his head. “I’m a failure.” 

“You’re not.” 

“I always have been.” 

“Shut up.” 

Scorpius’ voice is cold and Draco flinches. He looks up at him, filled with self-hatred and pathetic pity. “I’ve failed you, haven’t I?” 

“Yes,” Scorpius answers, point-blank. The admission hits Draco like a dagger strike but his son leans in quickly and says, “But I can forgive you fifteen months out of a lifetime of happiness. I’d be a terrible son if I didn’t. I’m a spoiled brat because of you and Maman and I appreciate everything you’ve given me. I love you.” 

Draco smiles at the sentiment so freely given, then frowns at himself, he doesn’t deserve his son’s love anymore. Scorpius shakes him. 

“Yes, you do.” 

Draco flinches again. “Stop reading me, it’s gauche.” 

“Then stop projecting, it's common.”

Draco scoffs. Scorpius smirks. They hold each other’s gaze, taking each other in, they’re so different and yet so similar in a myriad of conflicting and intertwining ways that Draco can’t make out where the threads end from where they begin. 

Scorpius squeezes Draco’s shoulder once more. “You can do this, Papa.” 

“Do what?” 

“ _Live_.” 

The next hour is a blur as Scorpius drags him to the bathroom to wash, ordering Pip to draw him a bath, shouting down the hall over his shoulder as he goes that he’s making a batch of crepes and only “pleasant-smelling and well-dressed Malfoys are allowed chocolate-hazelnut spread on theirs!” Draco scowls into the murky haze of lavender-scented bathwater. His son is too much like him for his own good, but the taunt works. Draco is sitting before a neat trio of triangle folded crepes not a half-hour later, apricot compote and chocolate-hazelnut spread placed in neat ramekins at his elbow. 

They’re in the solarium, and there’s sunshine on Draco’s face, warm and oddly reassuring. He can’t remember the last time he’s taken a meal in this room, but his son knew what he was doing having the table set in here. Draco allows himself an indulgent moment as he bites into the first real food he’s had in days and feels the heat of the summer day radiating through the glass ceiling, warming his skin. He basks in the feeling without letting his grief interrupt. It’s a fleeting moment but all the more precious because of it. He can sense Scoripus across from him, knows he’s smiling at him, and he keeps his eyes shut, too full with emotion to see his son looking at him with kindness he doesn’t deserve. 

_You can do this_ , Scorpius had said to him. _You can live_. 

* * *

Draco holds Scorpius for the first time one frost-bitten January night, a whole two months prior to the date he was due to arrive. Gabrielle had been in the solarium gathering vervain blossoms to hang for drying when a sharp pain rocketed through her. She gasped, her one hand shooting out towards the breakfast table for balance, flowers falling to the ground at her feet. Draco ran from the study, feeling the tinge of her unease sparking along his nerve endings. He caught her before she could drop to the floor, arms moving to hold her upper body tight to his. 

“I’ve got you,” he told her. 

She moaned in pain but nodded, her hand squeezing his arm as he carried her from the room towards the master bedroom.

Not two minutes later, their birthing Healer was stepping through the Floo, face set, eyes stern. 

“Hot water, clean cloth, and a cup of chamomile and raspberry leaf tea. Brewed for exactly four minutes, Mr Malfoy. Go!” 

Draco had done as bid, a mixture of terror and adrenaline running through him in equal measure. 

Thirteen and half hours later, Draco stands, holding his newborn son with concern consuming his every thought. He’s come too soon and he looks too small, too pink, too perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes, a shock of white-blond atop his head, and a red slash of a birthmark on his thigh. Draco doesn’t allow himself to cry, he doesn’t want his tears to stain the purity of his beautiful baby boy. 

“He’s early,” he says. 

“He’s right on time.” 

Draco looks up, eyes wide with the horror-filled astonishment of new fathers. Gabrielle lies in the middle of their large four-poster bed, surrounded by a shroud of freshly-cleaned white linen and a glow of ethereal light, an aura only Draco can see. He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out, only a soft oh of acknowledgement. Yes, of course, he’s right on time, of course. He’s brilliant, this child of theirs, there’s no way he wouldn’t be anything but perfectly on time. 

* * *

“He’s late,” Harry says, pacing back and forth across the parlour floor, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He’s been itchy all morning, a feeling of unease had settled somewhere along the back of his neck at dawn and taken root throughout the early hours. He can’t shake the sensation that something is wrong. 

“He’s never late,” Hermione sighs. 

“Exactly.” 

“Calm down, Harry.” 

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose, and just barely holds back from snapping at her. His anger is too close to the surface these days; they all live in a terrible limbo of expectation versus reality that had bloomed bitter and overly bright at the end of the war, and has managed to cling to them in the years since, an omnipresent spotlight of unwanted attention they can never hide from. Harry knows he can be too quick to bite back at meaningless little things. Hermione doesn’t deserve his anger. Neither does Draco. 

Harry presses his forehead to the cool pane of the front door, glasses clinking against the surface. “Draco,” he whispers, breath fogging the glass. There’s a light in his mind’s eye, faded and small. He squeezes his eyes shut, straining to see it more clearly, but it fizzles even as he reaches for it, stuttering and weak. 

He and Draco had fought the previous evening. A row so explosive in scale that Harry was sure one of them was going to bring down the ceiling with their combined rage. Everything had come to the fore in their volley of stinging words and vicious grievances. Years upon years of unspoken resentments and prejudices had been catapulted across the room at each other like quaffles being lobbed at opposing goalposts. The roaring floodgates of childhood wrongs had been opened for the umpteenth time and neither of them could stifle the flow. 

“You fucking coward!” Harry had cried as Draco turned from the argument and stalked out of the room, red-faced but with his head held high. He did not give into Harry’s taunts to return and continue, he did not even stay the night as they’d planned earlier in the evening, with laughter and alcohol still tingling on their lips. Draco had Disapparated from Harry’s stairwell not two seconds after Harry’s final jab, the crack resounding through the house like a leather whip hitting its target. 

Harry had stood stock-still in the middle of his room, barefoot and shellshocked, staring at the rafters above, wondering how everything had gone so pear-shaped in such a short amount of time. They’d always done this, been like this, at each other’s throats in a split-second, but it was always a catalyst into biting kisses and panted confessions of don’t stop, and please, never leave me. 

Those confessions, uttered in the hair’s breadth that hung between their lips as they struggled to find balance amongst all their catastrophic emotions, were always Harry’s. He was the one who warred with his own inner demons over Draco’s ideals and aspirations, now so altered compared to when he was seventeen. Yet, Harry has never been able to let that version of Draco go, the selfish, cowardly prick who’d happily break Harry’s nose under his boot heel than admit he needed love. 

But Draco had admitted it, so many times over that Harry could no longer keep track. So why did he continue to rib him with the demons of his past? Why did he have to bring it up every time they disagreed? He was a fool, a bastard, and now he stands, alone in his drafty old pile of a house, shaking. 

“Come back,” he’d said, voice small in the sudden stifling silence of the room, knowing Draco couldn’t hear him. “I’m sorry. Come back.” 

Going to bed that night without Draco next to him had been punishment enough. He ached, feeling the chill of the too-large bed surround him, reaching out again and again for the soft, warm skin of Draco next to him and finding only cool, clean linen in his stead. 

Now, as he watches the grandfather clock tick slowly past six, to half past, quarter to, and slouching decidedly towards seven, Harry knows that this unease coursing along his spine is not simple anxiety, but his magic telling him that Draco is truly gone. Harry has pushed him away. 

After all their fights, all their schoolboy tantrums and teenage obsessions that somehow morphed into (dare Harry think it) love, Draco’s extinguished that small ball of light they’d created together because Harry couldn’t separate his past from his future. He blinks, willing away the prickle of tears at the corner of his eyes. He’s brought this upon himself, he deserves this, he doesn’t get to cry. 

He turns to Hermione, the knowledge of his realisation still fresh in his mind, and feels his face break into a scowl of pain he can’t control. 

“What is it?” she asks, moving forward quickly, her book forgotten by the early evening fire. 

“He’s not coming back.” 

She stares at him, bewildered. “What? What do you mean?” 

“I’ve ruined it.” 

“Ruined what? Harry—”

She reaches for him, but Harry shies from her touch and hides his face from her knowing gaze, removing himself from the situation the only way he knows how. He’s walking out the front door, his feet taking him down the steps and past the front gate of the garden beyond. He speeds up, his shoes slapping against the wet pavement as he goes. He’s running before he knows it, the distant echoes of Hermione’s cries fading into the background as he chases the setting sun down the alleyways of Islington. 

He doesn’t stop running. 

In some ways, it feels like he never has. 

* * *

He takes a tentative step, halts, then paws at the dirt. Harry’s curious, his head tilted to the side as he assimilates. The world is wide and loud around him, his eyesight too keen, too sharp. He blinks and takes another step, two, twenty. Before he knows it, he’s running, galloping down the slope of the rock, away from the cottage, the paddocks, the gardens and outhouses, and the memories he’s tried so hard to bury all these years. They fall away as his mind tunnels to focus on only what’s in front of him, only his next jolt forward, testing out this new creature he’s become. 

Harry can feel the blood pumping through his veins, his heart pounding in his chest, and the rock beneath his hooves giving way as he pushes himself farther, faster than before. All around him the Thestrals have gathered, running with him, large looming black spectres of darkness come to be his companions in the bright light of the morning. Together they chase to and fro across the green fields, the slabs of jagged rock and the smooth planes of stone that curve out in an endless plateau across the island. A few have taken flight, gliding above him, the feel of their massive leather wings pressing the sea air down onto Harry’s back with every push. He throws his head back, hears himself make a foreign sound, knowing it’s a call of joy. Around him his herd runs, their long, elegant legs unfolding in their strides at his flank, following him to horizons unknown. 

“Wooo-wee!” A shout rings-out above them and Harry snorts out a gust from his flaring nostrils, knowing it’s Charlie on his broom yet unable to answer. Teddy’s there too, Harry can see him zooming in and out of his heightened peripheral vision. His gangly legs tucked in tight against Harry’s old Firebolt, his orange and black hair flying out behind him on the wind. His teeth are a flash of white on his young, freckled face as he swoops and loops and pushes up next to Charlie, holding out his hand for a high-five. 

“Knew you could do it, mate!” Charlie shouts again, and if Harry could call back to him at that moment, he would with an unbridled joy he hasn’t felt in years.

A resounding caw cuts the air and Harry’s head turns to see the black feathers of a large corvid teasingly trailing a foal who’s bursting with giddy excitement from the chase. Harry kicks out his back legs in a leap, realising who has joined them. 

Hermione, in all her infinite wisdom, would never have foreseen the sense of freedom that came with this transformation. Harry could only hope that her flight above them in the sky, soaring in and around Charlie and Teddy’s brooms, her black wings unfurled—long and strong and perfect for catching the wind—feels the same as his own surging elation at running with his herd along the rocky ground. It’s not unlike the first time he ever rode Sirius’ motorbike, or the adrenaline rush he’d experience on the back of his Firebolt while flying across the Quidditch pitch with the snitch in sight. He’s come undone and never wants to be put back together. 

They must make a motley quartet, spanning out over the landscape with the herd, while Ron no doubt stands guard back at the kitchen door, arms crossed over his chest, little Rose sitting eagerly on his shoulders pulling at his hair. Harry had witnessed Rose’s shock when he shifted and he couldn’t help but internally smile at the genuine surprise on her face, the ensuing giggle and the assessing intelligence in her expression as she took in this new experience before her. What a sight it must be to see it from Rose’s eyes. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Ron had said with a grin. Harry, neighing in return, knew what Ron had meant and loved him for it even more. 

* * *

The Portkey Scorpius booked for Draco to The Sanctuary unfortunately only takes him as far as Co. Galway in the Republic of Ireland. Draco is not entirely sure if Scorpius meant to do this or if the unique magic of the Aran Islands forbids certain means of transport, but Draco would not put it past his son to consider this humorous little prank as a farewell present. Scorpius may have been sorted Slytherin (thank Merlin) but his Weasley cousins (plural, Circe help him) have no doubt influenced his more flamboyant tendencies towards practical jokes over the years. 

Draco straightens his robes and looks warily at the Wizarding section of the tiny fishing village he’s landed in, knowing full well his aristocratic features and finely-tailored clothes mark him as incongruous in such a setting. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, he steps quickly into a public house at the end of the lane to ask the bartender for directions to the nearest Portkey office. 

His polite inquiry in regards to finding his way to Inishmore via Portkey is met with uproarious laughter. Not only from the genial-looking man behind the bar, but from several patrons around the small room. 

Draco frowns, feeling off-balance and not liking the sensation in the least. “Have I missed something?” 

“There’s no Portkey office here, lad,” the man says, and Draco blinks at him; more from being called lad at the age of forty-five than the shock of the lack of modern transportation in the village. 

“Right, well. Perhaps a broom shop? How far away is the—“ he trails off as the man shakes his head halfway through his question, eyes crinkling with mirth at the corners. 

“A broom won’t do you no good, neither.” 

It’s at this point that Draco very much wants to stomp his foot and demand his son explain himself. What the hell kind of game was Scorpius playing at? 

Wanting very much to hex something but not wanting to act like the upper-class prat that he very much looks like in a room full of strangers, Draco decides instead that the proper way to deal with his frustration is by drinking. He pulls out the stool, slides primly onto it with the air of a man who simply won’t put up with another disappointment for at least twenty minutes, and asks for a double of the twelve-year behind the bar. 

The barkeep slaps his hand down onto the shining worktop and grins. “Lovely.” 

Draco nods. “Quite.” He’s digging into his bag for the two-way mirror Scorpius gave him earlier that morning, already rehearsing the scolding he’s looking forward to giving the boy for his pranks when the door to the pub opens, bringing with it a gust of salt air. 

Draco looks up, the breeze blowing his hair into his eyes, and blinks. Surely, he’s seeing things because there is no way that Hermione Granger, all five foot four of her with a glowing aura of purest gold is standing in the doorway. There just isn’t… Draco must have finally gone ‘round the twist because this day can not get any weirder than— 

“Hello Draco,” she’s saying, walking quickly to the bar and taking the stool next to him after kissing his cheek. “S’good to see you.” 

“Granger, you can’t be serious,” he says in scandalised tones as he squeezes her hands in greeting, utterly relieved that she’s here. “What on earth is going on?”

She looks at him, eyes narrowing. “Scorpius didn’t tell you?” 

“No he bloody didn’t tell me! Or, at least, I don’t know, he told me the Portkey would take me to The Sanct—“ 

Hermione’s sigh is so loud it cuts Draco off mid-rant. “You can’t Portkey onto the islands. Scorpius knows that. I’ve told him as much.” 

The barkeep is nodding as he places Draco’s order down in front of him. “Too right. That’s a _thin_ place, it is, filled with old magic… old as stone.” 

“Thin?” Draco repeats, eyebrow raising. 

“Between two worlds, like.” 

“Quite,” Draco says for the second time in as many minutes. He gestures to Granger to order. 

“Pint of stout, please.” She smiles at the old man who winks at her. 

Draco takes a long sip of his drink. “Please, explain.”

Hermione shrugs, pulling off her silk scarf and folding it neatly in her lap. “It seems, Scorpius is having a bit of a laugh at your expense.” 

“I’ll be contacting my solicitor directly to remove him from my will.” 

“Sounds reasonable.” 

Draco scowls at her over the rim of his glass. “I blame the Weasleys. And yes, I’m including you for contributing to the horde. Scorpius would be a testament to Slytherin’s name if not for the influence of Victoire and Rose.” 

Hermione nods. “And Teddy is exempt from your ire, I suppose?” 

“Teddy is a Black, Granger. Of course he’s exempt.”   
  
“Well, glad we got that sorted.” 

“Cheers.” Draco toasts the air and finishes off his whiskey, enjoying the rich, dark notes of oak and smoke on his tongue. The momentary reprieve is short-lived, however, because he can’t shake the feeling of unease Hermione’s presence has unearthed. He adores her, of course, but an afternoon passed in her company has never left anyone feeling relaxed. 

“What’s the catch, Granger? There must be a reason for this serendipitous meeting.” 

“There is.” 

“Out with it, I’m an old man. My time is short.” 

Hermione smacks him. “We’re the same age, Draco.” 

“Yes, and you wear it beautifully, my dear. Unlike myself. I am nothing but a decaying slip of a man with—“ 

“An excessive flair for the dramatic?” 

The bartender coos his agreement and shakes his head with suppressed mirth. “Too right.” 

Draco continues to ignore him. “What did Scorpius conveniently forget to tell me, then?” 

Hermione smiles. “You can either take a Muggle boat to the island or you can fly.” 

“That’s what I was asking… brooms.” 

Hermione shakes her head. “Nope. Thestrals.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“The Sanctuary is a Thestral enclave, Draco. A collection of wild, stray, retired and locally bred beasts make up the herd.” 

“So, there’s no geothermal pools?” 

“What? No. That’s Iceland.” 

“No saunas?” 

“Try Finland.” 

“Hot water springs?” 

Hermione throws her hands in the air. “Draco, do you know anything about Ireland at all?” 

Draco sniffs. “My education was focused elsewhere.” 

“Clearly.” 

The bartender pours more whiskey into Draco’s glass without prompting and Draco, despite himself, bows his head in excessive gratitude. 

* * *

Slightly worse for drink, Draco eyes the looming, leather-like wings of the Thestral with skepticism. Its cloudy eyes stare back at him, assessing and, to Draco’s pride-filled horror, finding him wanting. 

“Do you think it wise that I mount that beast in my condition?” 

Hermione laughs and shoots a charm his way. Draco feels the ground solidify beneath his boots and the tingling sensation of intoxication leave his veins. He blinks, amazed. 

“That’s . . . handy.” 

Hermione nods. “Yes, I think so.” And then performs the same spell on herself, doing a little shimmy as the charm takes hold. “I don’t fancy taking a plunge into the ice-cold waters of Galway Bay, do you?” 

Draco shakes his head, an involuntary shiver running through him. “Not quite, no.” 

Nodding, Hermione conjures herself both a strange looking saddle that magically winds its way around the Thestral’s middle and a little step to aid her in mounting the animal. 

“There really is no other way to approach the island?” Draco asks with a grimace. 

“Nope. Not unless you have a charmed motorbike on hand?” 

Draco blinks, taken aback. “No, I do not.” A flash of memory rocks through him like a battering ram—the wind ripping through his hair, the heat of a solid body pressed against his own, laughter echoing through the sky and a sunset worthy of any great master painting melting out before them on the horizon as Harry soars them over the London rooftops, the bike’s engine an intoxicating vibration beneath their thighs. Draco’s mouth goes slack at the unwelcome image, something he’s fought long to keep buried in a past he doesn’t like to dwell on. He looks to Hermione, curious if her charm hadn’t worked as well on herself as it had on him. With brows furrowed, pain seeping into his heart, “Why would you ask me that?” 

The question goes unanswered as Hermione gracefully mounts her steed. Draco doesn’t know if she didn’t hear him or simply chose to ignore him. He finds himself unsettled by both theories. 

Hermione hovers the little step stool over to Draco’s beast and nods her head, encouraging, as if she truly hadn’t heard Draco’s request, or seen the ache upon his face at her careless words. She conjures a saddle for him a moment later and Draco tries his best to brush off his unease. 

Taking in a deep gulp of fortifying salt air, Draco sets his resolve, feeling old and tired but with his promise to Scorpius ringing clear in his mind. He steadies himself and shoves his boot into the metal stirrup; he can do this. 

“Hold fast,” Hermione says as she clucks her tongue, leading the Thestral to the edge of the wooden dock beneath them before the large wings of the creature unfurl and in a single, rushing swoop leaps into flight over the rippling water of the bay. Draco watches from his mount, stunned at the sight she makes silhouetted in the sky with a golden hue echoing around her, and then, with an excess of courage he never thought he possessed, follows. 

* * *

“There!” Hermione calls over the wind, her voice carrying back to him on a gust. Draco looks down at where she’s pointing and sees spread out before them an endless expanse of grey tinged rock and mossy green flora. Meandering lines of stone walls slice through the landscape, along with the occasional darting black figure that Draco assumes to be a wild Thestral gone loose from the herd. 

Their descent is gradual but feels immediate after so long afloat in the wicked chill of the thin air above the clouds. Draco can sense the change in climate and temperature, the spike of humidity as they dip closer to the waves, the heightened smell of salt and earth. It alights his keen senses with a prickle of the unknown and to Draco’s utter surprise, he’s eager to see more. He’s excited. 

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust against the low afternoon sun cutting sharp white lines across the rock, but the first thing he notices upon touching down on this foreign landscape is a ginger-haired man wrestling one of the Thestrals to the ground. Draco’s shocked for all of a second before he realises that the man is in fact aiding the poor creature, not harming it. 

He watches with rapt fascination as the man acts with quick, assured movements, his arms bare and quite impressive as he flips the animal on its side and extracts some sort of hindrance from the soft inner pad of its hoof. He gives the beast a pat on the rump as it shuffles to its feet and shakes its head in a bit of an irritated huff. As it stalks away from the man his attention travels over to where Draco and Hermione are standing and his smile widens even further as he shouts over the wind, “‘Mione!” A large tattoo of what looks like a dragon’s tail running along the underside of the man’s bicep is revealed as he raises his arm in an overly genial wave. He’s surrounded by a warm honeyed glow, like toffee topped on ice cream—it’s a soothing observation. 

It takes another second for Draco to come to the conclusion that this man must be Bill’s elusive younger brother, Charlie. He’s shared meals at Bill and Fleur’s table for twenty years now and yet he’s never met this particular member of Bill’s massive family, no doubt due in part to his constant travelling.

“Of course, more Weasleys,” he mumbles as he moves forward, his Thestral steed keeping step just beside him. 

“This has to be Draco,” Charlie says, approaching with an outstretched hand. He’s positively covered in freckles, eyes crinkled with decades of laugh lines, and Merlin help him, Draco finds himself charmed. This man is the less refined version of Bill with an easy smile and longer, more wild hair that works for him far more than Bill’s reserved ponytail by comparison. 

They exchange pleasantries and Charlie collects the bridles from their Thestrals as he explains to Hermione how he and Teddy had just touched down themselves that morning and will be staying the weekend to help with the birthing of multiple expectant mothers in the herd. 

“Oh, I wish I’d known! I would have brought Rose.” 

Charlie grins at her. “You sure about that? What with the surprise n’ all.” 

To Draco’s astonishment, Hermione actually looks guilty at Charlie’s words. He raises an eyebrow at this turn of events, intrigued. 

“What surprise?” 

Charlie throws his head back and laughs. Draco watches the lines of his throat work for a moment before forcing himself to look away out over the horizon. 

“Oh, this is too good. Did you not tell him either, ‘Mione?” 

“Well, that was Scorpius’ job,” Hermione retorts. 

Draco sighs. “Oh, let me guess, my dearly beloved son forgot to mention some other key aspect to this trip?” 

Charlie folds his arms across his broad chest and looks to Hermione, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He’s enjoying himself entirely too much. A smirking Weasley never led to anything pleasant in Draco’s book. 

“Draco,” Hermione starts, voice hesitant. “We didn’t necessarily think this . . . particular bit of information would factor that strongly into your deciding to come stay here, but—”

“I’m an old man, Granger. Out with it.” 

“Harry owns this land.” 

There’s a sudden ringing in Draco’s ear. He shakes his head, hoping to rid himself of the nuisance before focusing once again on Granger’s face, wondering if he’d heard her correctly. 

“Harry . . . ?” 

“Potter, yes.” 

Wheeling on the spot, he looks to Charlie Weasley, desperate. “Weasley, is this madwoman serious?” 

Charlie’s full lips thin as he presses down a smile. Draco feels lightheaded. 

Hermione clears her throat and begins speaking as if she’s reciting from a brochure. “Thestrals are long lauded for their comforting and therapeutic natures. Even being close to one can imbue a sense of calm—”

“Why?” Draco asks, cutting Hermione off entirely. 

Hermione takes a moment, Draco can see her inner defences coming to the fore and he’s not soothed by the sight, the aura around her sparking with diamond flashes of light. She squares her shoulders, pushes her wind-blown curls back off her face and steps closer to him, her expression stern. 

Finally, she says, “you were killing yourself, Draco.” 

“So you thought it’d a good idea to let Harry do it for me?” Draco shouts, all sense of propriety leaving him. “He hates me, Hermione! We—” Draco swallows back the words. Hermione doesn’t know, couldn’t know, the true nature of his and Harry’s past. Or, at least, Draco’s side of their past. The long-hidden shame he holds deep inside, the decades of self-hatred over his pathetic cowardice, his cavalier handling of his and Harry’s connection. He’d selfishly traded it for a comfort and a life he never deserved, and now his son has sent him to the very man whose trust he’d broken to help heal him? It was madness. 

What the hell were Scorpius and Granger thinking! 

Draco feels a traitorous stinging at the corner of his eyes and clenches his jaw, forcing down the emotion. Hermione sees his reaction and steps closer still, her warm hand pressing hard on his shoulder. 

“Breathe.” 

“I can’t. Not around him.” 

He’s spiralling, he can both feel and see the blackness closing in on him, his vision tunnelling down to pinpricks of light, the leather strap of Hermione’s rucksack on her shoulder the only thing left to focus on. Harry’s land. Harry’s Sanctuary now tainted by Draco’s very presence. 

He watches as if through rushing water Hermione turning to look at Charlie; a silent communication passing between them and then Charlie’s nod. He wanders off across the rock and heather, his red hair flashing in the breeze as he goes. Draco should have known the moment he saw that redhead that Harry would have something to do with this place. He’d been the Weasleys seventh son since the age of eleven, a black sheep welcomed into the ginger fold with open, loving arms. 

Draco often wondered what had become of Harry after he’d left England. He’d known, in some way, it had something to do with him, but was too scared to pursue the true reason and too much of a fool not to. All he’d ever heard in the years since was that the great Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World had retired to Ireland to live a quiet life on land left to him by his godfather. The side of Draco that had grown terrified of confrontation after hearing the news, found a terrible, painful solace in the knowledge that he’d never have to see his commanding presence in Diagon Alley, or spy him tableside at a Delacour-Weasley gathering in France, again. 

Harry had, in fact, done him a favour in leaving. 

Bile rose in this throat at the thought. He’d been so weak, so shamefully, pathetically weak; so blindly willing to let Harry go in place of the promised stability of fulfilling his familial duty to the Malfoy name. The reason he’d been born. What he’d been raised to do. Falling into the role required only that he numb himself of the previous four years of happiness. Extinguish a bond so new it barely had time to take root inside him and yet had already weaved itself into the very fabric of his soul. Draco had survived living under the Dark Lord’s vindictive, penetrating gaze for a year, successfully cutting off all emotion from his mind in order to simply breathe in the same space as that vile creature. Cutting out a piece of his heart and self-cauterizing the wound couldn’t be worse. 

In truth, it had been infinitely more painful than any Cruciatus curse ever thrown at him, but Draco had been lucky. He’d found Gabrielle. He’d found solace in a woman he had no right to love but did and the mire of his mind now felt so muddled in memories he could barely stand. 

Ripping his eyes away from Charlie’s retreating form, he looks around him wildly, taking in his surroundings in a new light. Panic choking the air from his lungs. An island in the middle of the sea. He’d willingly come to an island cut off from the world with ancient magic that altered that of his own coursing through the very rock beneath his feet, tethering him to a place he should never have come to in the first place. What the hell had Scorpius done in sending him here? 

Hermione squeezes his shoulder, her other hand pushing back the hair off his sweat-soaked face. A motherly gesture he eagerly leans in to, needing the comfort. 

“I’ll talk to him, Draco. We’ll make it work.” 

A bitter laugh comes out of him like a bark. He shakes his head, feels the warmth of tears stain his cheeks. “You can’t perform miracles, Granger, no matter how brilliant you are.” 

She smiles. “I can try.” 

* * *

Draco wrings his hands in his lap, unease filling him at what Fleur is explaining to him. He doesn’t want to wrap his head around the theory of bonding, he simply wants to drink gin and ache. 

“Do not fret, mon cher. It is simple to control once you understand it. With a bond so new, things are easier to . . . ,” Fleur pauses and tilts her head in thought, “what’s the word, shift?” 

“Shift?” Draco repeats. 

“Oui. Like, move around. Alter.” 

“I don’t want to alter it, though, do I?” Draco asks, voice muffled from his swollen nose. He’d been crying most of the day. 

Fleur lifts an elegantly slim shoulder, her silken hair falling over her smooth skin with the movement. The aura around her appearing like a soft morning haze over a lavender field, adding a pearlescent sheen to her perfect complexion. She clasps Draco’s hand with her own, fierce and loyal. “Perhaps not. But it is good to know that you can.” 

“Have you?” 

“Have I what?” she asks, earnest and open.

“Altered your bond with Bill.” 

Fleur surges backwards, face contorting with confusion and anger, the air turning red around her. “Of course not!” 

“Then why would I want to alter mine with Harry?” Draco asks, feeling emboldened at getting a rise out of Fleur, and then immediately crumples with the realisation that he’s simply lashing out because he’s hurting. He always did project his pain onto others, too frightened of his own overwhelming feelings. “I’m sorry,” he says, before Fleur can answer and he looks away from her sad expression, eyes staring into the low-burning embers of the hearth. 

Draco hears the creaking floorboards as Bill enters the room, as if summoned by Fleur’s discomfort alone. He turns in time to see Bill place a consoling hand on Fleur shoulder before bending down to press a kiss against her neck. “Chatting bonds, I see,” he says upon standing once more. 

“Yes, Draco has formed one.” 

Bill raises a ginger eyebrow in Draco’s direction. “Harry?” 

Draco nods and turns away again, feeling a fresh prickle of tears sting at the corners of his eyes. Fleur squeezes his hand and asks Bill to heat the kettle for more tea. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks upon reentering the room with three steaming mugs trailing in his wake. “It’s . . . tense in here.” 

Shaking her head, Fleur says, “They had a fight.” 

Bill nods, moving to sit in the chair across from them, long legs crossing. “Sure. Everyone fights.” 

Draco’s shoulders spike, the embarrassment of his cowardice washing over him again. Yes, everyone fights, but not everyone Apparates away from such things and doesn’t come back for days on end. Draco hasn’t been back to Grimmauld Place in a week. He’d fled first to France to his mother and then, when the endless supply of macarons, the crushing weight of familial expectation and champagne got to be too overwhelming for his tastes, he ran to Fleur. She’s been an ally and friend since the days of fourth-year when speaking to the Beauxbaton students in their native French was his only reprieve from the horrors of puberty and his sexual awakening at the sight of Harry besting a dragon on the back of a broom. 

“I want to know how to control it,” he says, cutting off the quiet conversation that Fleur and Bill had been having since Draco had slipped away into the jumble of his own thoughts. 

“Of course, mon cher, but first you should—” 

“No, now. Please.” Draco turns to Fleur, pleading with his eyes. 

Behind them, the hearth fire flares to life in a blaze of green and Bill stands to answer the call. Draco quickly wipes at his eyes and casts a wandless calming charm over himself in hopes that it would leave him feeling less flushed and unsettled. He’d been expecting Harry to step through the crackling embers but when he turns back, who he sees instead is a mirror of the woman sitting beside him. The only difference he can spy is her hair colour, a shade darker than her sister’s. 

“Gabrielle,” Fleur says as she rushes forward to envelop her younger sister in a fierce hug. 

Draco looks to Bill, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, coming to stand, and pressing out the creases on his trousers. “I should go.” 

“No! Don’t be silly. You must stay for supper.” 

“Yes, please don’t leave on my account,” Gabrielle adds, her accent lilting and effortlessly sweet. Draco inclines his head in her direction. 

“No, I’m afraid I’ve trespassed on your sister and brother-in-law’s company for far too long—” but it’s Bill’s hand that stills Draco from his retreat towards the Floo. 

“Draco. Stay. Eat something.” His eyes are sincere and concerned. Such a typical Weasley, wanting to feed everyone. Yet, Draco can’t look away, and can’t for the life of him, turn Bill down. He nods, pulling his shoulders into a straight line. Hoping that after dinner, he and Fleur will have more time to discuss the nature of love bonds. As he sits at the small dining table surrounded by the soft golden light emanating from the scallop shell candles floating just out of reach he hears his mother’s voice echo in his head, pushing itself into the warmth and calm of this domestic space, unbidden. _Don’t you want a family of your own Draco . . . Your children would be so beautiful . . . and I’d love a grandchild . . . such love and light a child can bring to your life . . . let go of the prejudice of the past_ , _my dear, and find a future worthy of your happiness._

He feels the presence of someone slipping into the chair beside him and when he opens his eyes from the onslaught of his mother’s penetrating guilt he sees a long plait of sandy hair, sun-kissed skin, and a soft smile directed his way, shy and earnest. Gabrielle is holding out a plate of honey-glazed carrots drizzled in rich balsamic, a look of encouragement on her delicately featured face and a glow of purest amber encircling her head like a crown. 

“Merci,” Draco says, and reaches for the serving spoon. 

* * *

Harry storms out of the stables, shoving the messy tangle of his too-long hair out of his face. He sees Hermione just outside the house, tickling a barn cat under the chin and makes for her, anger flaring at the news Charlie had just inadvertently divulged to him. Beneath him, the heather shifts away from his strides, folding itself aside in a straight seam leading directly to Hermione’s feet. 

“Where is he?” Harry asks, his voice rough. 

Looking up, Hermione quickly hides her shock at the sight of him so roused, no doubt hoping to break the news to him, herself. If only she ever bothered to learn how terrible Charlie is at keeping secrets. 

Hermonie stands and lifts her chin, defiant. “Inside, refusing to drink the tea I conjured him.” 

“Still a pompous brat, then?” 

Hermione scoffs. “Hardly. He’s terrified that you’ll fly off the handle.” 

Harry tilts his head, feeling slightly unhinged. “And why would I do that?” 

She folds her arms across her chest, stance firm. “Because he’s the summer guest I booked. Remember? We discussed this last week. He’s here for the duration.”

In the ensuing silence, the scattered bramble and limestone pebbles around Harry’s boots vibrate, jumping off the embedded rock. Harry stares at Hermione, sees the show of false confidence hiding the strain on her face and he can only clench his fists harder. 

“Who thought,” he begins, barely containing himself, “that this . . . _plan_ , was a good one?” 

“I did, Harry.” Hermione says, face set. 

“How dare you.”

Hermione steps closer, proving to Harry that she isn’t scared of his tantrums. “He needs help, Harry.” 

“So do a lot of people.” 

“But he’s one of us. And he’s hurting.” 

Harry feels a gentle touch on his arm and looks down at her delicate hand. He sees the emerald ring on her fourth finger glint in the light, and remembers Ron picking out that ring, remembers watching him place it on Hermione’s finger from his place beside them at their wedding. Knowing that even after all this time, all the nights of tears and too much whiskey passed between them, that Hermione still considers Draco to be a part of _them_ cuts deeper than any curse. 

Harry removes her hand, takes a step back. 

“It’s okay, Harry. We’ll work through it.”

Harry’s shaking his head, mind spinning. 

“Breathe,” she says. 

“Can’t. Not with him here.” 

Harry turns on the spot and Apparates away from them all, forcing his magic into the very fabric of the rock on which he stands to bend to its will and project him far beyond this place, splinching be damned. Eyes squeezed shut and belly pulled taut with the sharp yank of a hook, he feels himself soaring and only opens his eyes again when he’s landed on solid, craggy ground once more. He looks around himself, seeing the cliffs he knows well and the endless cascade of grass behind him, The Sanctuary a mere dot on the horizon. He’s lying to himself but somewhere deep down he swears he can see the flash of a white-blond head, shining in the rare midday sunshine. 

“Fuck.” 

Pushing a hand through his hair he stalks along the cliff’s edge, needing to think, needing to catch his breath. Below him, the sea crashes against the sheer stone of the cliff, foam and froth and fierce power pushing up against the ancient rock, now forever tainted by the painful sting of his past. 

He can’t stand being in his human body any longer and shifts, breaking into an instant gallop, legs pumping, lungs pushing out air as he tears a line across the landscape, lamenting how he’s come so far, lived so long away from all the memories and the pain, all the resentment and strife, only to once again be chasing the ghost of peace here on the island he’s long called home. 

Harry forces himself not to think, eradicating all thought from his mind, and focuses instead on the task at hand: running. 

Always running. 

* * *

Draco’s pouring milk into his tea on his first morning at The Sanctuary when the door to the kitchen bangs open. It takes every remaining vestige of his pureblood upbringing to remain standing and not crumple in shock, shattering the stoneware urn in his hands and landing on the floor in an undignified heap. It’s a near thing but he just manages.

Harry stops short when he spots Draco in the kitchen, the air around him rippling with wild magic sparking gold in the low light. Draco takes in his appearance with as much calm indifference as he can summon. Feeling the tendrils of Harry’s unchecked power tickling across his skin does not help his composure in the slightest and he shivers despite himself. 

Harry notices. 

“Cold?” 

Draco shakes his head. “No.” 

A nod in the direction of the teapot. “Mind pouring me one?” 

“No, of course.” Draco turns back to the table and fills another cup with the Oolong Hermione had provided him with not five minutes prior before she’d made a hasty exit to one of the outbuildings that she uses as an office when in residence. 

“Hermione hiding?” Harry asks as he raises the cup to his lips with a nod of thanks. 

“I believe so.” 

Harry grunts. Draco assumes that translates to _she should_ and sits down before he falls down, taking a much needed sip of his own brew. It scalds his throat but he welcomes the heat, it grounds him in the unwavering magic of the room. Harry’s practically glowing, his emotions projecting in colours all around them that only Draco can see. He wonders if Harry’s forgotten how well Draco has always been able to read him, how predictable his moods are and how terribly uncautious he always was with them when around Draco. Not that he would ever purposefully use that against Harry but the instinct has always been there at the back of his mind. As a Veela, noting the spectrum of emotion allows for manipulation of that emotion, hence a Veela’s power. Harry should know this by now. 

Draco shifts in his chair, extends a hand in invitation. “Staying?” 

“Hmm?” Harry had been looking off out the kitchen window, his mind elsewhere while his magic and his moods swirled around Draco like a tidepool of intoxicating colour. 

“Are you going to sit down like a civilized member of society or continue standing with your muddy boots dripping atrocities all over the floor?” 

“What? Oh.” Distractedly, Harry thumps down into a chair and spells his boots and the floor clean. The air around them changes as he turns his attention to Draco. It’s unsettling. 

The moment doesn’t have a chance to lengthen because just as the tension pulls taut between them Charlie walks into the kitchen with a grin, Teddy at his heels. 

“We running today, Harry?” 

Harry throws back the rest of his tea in one swallow, slams the cup down onto the table with a resounding thunk, his eyes never leaving Draco’s. “Yup,” he says, and pushes himself to stand despite having just sat down. 

“Running?” Draco asks. 

“Yeah, exercising the foals. Gets ‘em strong, ready to fly. They’ve been taking first-flights all this past week off the cliffs.” Charlie explains, cordial and smiling.

“Ah.” 

“You’re coming.” 

Everyone pauses, staring at Harry, who’d issued the order. Draco blinks at him. “I’m what?” 

“What did you think your time here was going to be like? Sitting in my kitchen contemplating the weather?” 

At a loss, Draco just stares back at Harry, stern.

“Get up. You’re coming.” 

Draco doesn’t move.

“That is, if you’d like to, Mr Malfoy,” Teddy adds, his placating nature showing along with a cool blue glow of his aura, its effect calming Draco’s nerves. The mischievous smile he pairs with the invitation, however, is totally a Weasley influence along with the chosen colour of his ginger hair save for one streak of jet black to match Harry’s. 

Draco inclines his head in acceptance. “Thank you, Teddy,” and stands, sending a glare in Harry’s direction. “I suppose Scorpius hoped I’d spend time with the Thestrals—”

“It is literally the only reason people come here.” Harry interrupts. 

“Quite.” Draco smooths his palms over his trousers and looks to Teddy for guidance. “Should I change or will my current attire do for mucking about with beasts?” 

“Ha, you’ll be fine. After all, what are cleaning charms for?” 

Charlie heads to the door, holding it open for everyone assembled. “Well, I can’t wait to see this,” he stage-whispers to Teddy. As Draco walks out into the weak morning light, he hears Teddy snort behind him. It isn’t encouraging. 

* * *

On the third day of waking, making tea, sipping tea, and reluctantly following Teddy out to the rocky grounds beyond the cottage, Draco finally snaps and asks about their omnipresent brooms. 

“Why is it that I had to fly in on one of these bony beasts while you lot are zooming about on your brooms as if Hermione didn’t explicitly tell me that such magic was prohibited, hmm?” He’d directed the question at Teddy but it’s Charlie who answers. 

“Harry did it.” 

Draco raises an eyebrow at him. “Did what? How?” 

Charlie barks out an awkward laugh as he raises his strong arm to rub a hand over the back of his neck, a nervous gesture that Draco refuses to find endearing, despite spying the swirling tail of Charlie’s dragon tattoo teasing the underside of his bicep. Folding his own arms across his chest, Draco squares his shoulders and waits for a proper response. 

Teddy, beside him asks, “You gonna tell him?” 

“Ha! I mean, I’d happily explain except—”

“Explain what?” Draco interrupts. 

“Well, funny story, actually,” Teddy starts, “since the magic of this island is ancient and all, and somewhat mischievous. . . ” 

“I’m listening.” Draco encourages.

“It’s true, you can’t use normal means of transport to get to and from the island, but Harry, being Harry, managed to alter the magical signature on his land to allow for us to use brooms.” At this, Teddy cracks into a grin, his cheeks pinking with his mirth. 

“What aren’t you telling me, Theodore?” 

Charlie snorts. Teddy grins wider. “Um, well, Aunt ‘Mione read in a book about . . . certain practices to alter ancient magic. . ." he breaks off in a giggle and Draco sighs, exasperated.

He looks to Charlie, both eyebrows raised this time in expectancy. 

“Spunk,” Charlie blurts, giving in to his own laughter. 

“ _What?!_ ” 

It’s at this moment that Harry decides to grace them with his presence, all wind-swept and dragonhide clad, his hair a riot of salt and pepper curls atop his head, loose strands running amok from the tie holding it. His gaze is fierce as he glares at each of them in turn. 

“What’s happening? Why aren’t you guiding the foals out to the cliffs?” 

“Teddy was just explaining to Draco here how you added your own . . . um, special . . . _potion_ to the island to alter its signature, which enables us to ride brooms.”   
  
“‘Added your own?’” Draco repeats, curling his lip, realisation dawning. “Oh Merlin,” he says, turning to Harry. “Have you actually been wanking off over the rocks so that you can ride your Firebolt around the back garden?” 

Behind them Charlie chokes, coughing loudly. 

“Alright there, Charlie?” Harry asks.

Patting his chest, Charlie gasps, "Grand!” before doubling over with laughter. Teddy joins him, practically falling to his knees at Charlie’s side. 

Draco takes a step back and stares down at his shoes as if they’ve just been pissed on by an untrained crup. 

“He didn’t!” Draco says, scandalised. 

“He did!” Teddy wheezes while Charlie nods emphatically next to him. 

“Listen,” Harry says, hands raised, “that was one time.” 

“Three!” Charlie corrects, holding up three fingers while bracing his hands on his knees for support. 

Draco bites his lip, trying not to laugh. It’s a near thing. 

Harry’s aura is fizzling pink with embarrassment. “It was Hermione’s idea!”

Draco loses all composure and hiccups out a laugh that he attempts to hide behind his hand. It’s no use, Harry is glaring at him. It doesn’t phase Draco in the slightest, the gossip is just too good.

With exaggerated grace, Draco bows at the hip in Harry's direction, hand placed compassionately over his heart. “Thank you, Harry.” 

“What the fuck for?” 

“For doing what needed to be done. You selfless, selfless man.” 

Charlie and Teddy erupt into another round of laughter behind him. Harry grunts and promptly stalks in the opposite direction, ignoring the giddy shouts of Teddy encouraging him to come back. 

After a few moments of stilted yet highly amused silence, Charlie says, “That went rather well.” 

* * *

Teddy goes flying past them both on a broom too big for his too-young self. Harry calls out as Teddy flies higher than the built-in safety features of the broom are supposed to allow. “Oi! Mind your speed, kiddo!” 

“He’s a little menace,” Draco says, smirking into his gin and tonic. 

“He’s four.” 

“My point exactly.” 

Harry moves to kick him but Draco catches his leg between his own and pulls his bare foot up into his lap, making quick work of rubbing soothing circles into Harry’s ankle and lower calf. 

“Oh, that’s nice,” Harry says, sinking further into his chair. 

“Of course it’s nice. I am nothing if not nice.” 

Harry snorts. Draco pinches him. 

“Hey!” 

Draco’s mouth twists into a smirk as his fingers work their way farther up Harry’s shin to the back of his knee. 

“That tickles,” he says, feeling warmth pool in the pit of his stomach. 

“Liar.” 

The sun is slowly slouching towards the horizon, leaving the warmth of the day to sizzle out into something much more bearable now that the long shadows of trees, chimneys stacks, and church spires make their cool path over the grass towards Harry and Draco’s spot on the patio behind Grimmauld Place. In the garden just beyond, Teddy whoops and calls out in joy as he flies around the narrow lanes of honeysuckle and bramble, overgrown tomato plants and drooping sunflower heads. Harry turns to watch him chase an unsuspecting bumblebee around a long-decommissioned fountain in much need of repair. 

“You ever going to fix this place up, Potter?” 

Harry shrugs, feeling a melancholic chill settle over him despite the warmth of the evening. “Dunno.” 

“Well, at least Teddy likes it like this.” 

Harry offers a small smile at that. “He does. Chaos is his calling card, after all.” 

“Imagine once he gets to school?” 

Harry groans and drops his head in his hand. “Minerva is going to kill me.” 

Draco laughs. “Oh, if only it were that simple to put an end to you.” 

“Ha!” Harry barks, dislodging his foot from Draco’s lap. “You should be so lucky.” 

There’s a blush high on Draco’s cheeks. Harry finds he likes the look on him. He leans forward, grabs Draco’s hand in his own, strokes the back of his knuckles with his thumb. “It takes more than death to get rid of me, Draco. You know that.” 

“I do.” 

Harry raises Draco’s hand, kisses the back of it. “Don’t worry.” 

“What makes you think I worry?” 

“I can read you like a book.”

Draco jerks his hand free, scoffing. “Don’t do that. It’s gauche.” 

“Is it?” 

“Yes,” he hisses. 

Harry moves to kneel between Draco’s knees, his hands coming to frame Draco’s pale, beautiful face. 

“What are you doing?” Draco asks, voice full of false indignation. 

“Getting your attention.” 

Draco rolls his eyes. Harry leans in, steals a kiss. “Hey,” he says against Draco’s mouth, “I love you.” 

“I know that, you pillock.” 

“Good.” Harry smiles. He leans in once more, pressing his lips to Draco’s, filling the chaste gesture with the promise of much more once Teddy is long asleep and they have the dark house to themselves. 

“Come on, let’s go make dinner.” 

“Can we have Italian?” 

Standing, Harry holds out his hand to Draco. “‘Course. Anything you want.” 

Draco smiles at him, utterly fond. “Such a romantic.” 

“I try.” Harry turns his head, shouting out into the garden. “Teddy, pack it in, kiddo! Dinner time.” 

“Five more minutes?” 

Harry laughs. “Better make it ten.” 

“You spoil him.” 

“That’s what godfathers are for.” 

Draco squeezes his hand, a small smile playing on his lovely face. “You head in. I’ll keep an eye on Teddy.” 

* * *

“Here,” Harry says, shoving a dusty _Comet 3000_ in Draco’s hands on the seventh morning of his summer residence at The Sanctuary. 

“Oh,” Draco says, blinking at the broom. “Is this a reward for my good behaviour?” 

Harry grunts and turns from him, pushing out the kitchen door to the back garden without another word. 

“Charming, as always!” Draco calls out to him then grimaces, looking at the broom in his hands. He’d been pestering everyone from Charlie to Hermione via Floo why he couldn’t fly with them if Harry had insisted on him joining them in watching the herd for their daily dives off the cliffs and now he’d gone and been cheeky to the man right after he’d given him what he’d wanted. “Fuck, you’re such an arse,” he says to himself. 

“Nah, you’re not.” 

Draco jumps, turning to see Charlie leaning against the counter, strong arms crossed over his broad chest, easy smile in place. 

“Morning.” 

“Morning,” Draco nods. “Looks like I get to fly today.” 

“I see that. Excited?” 

Swallowing, Draco can’t seem to answer that question, the words sticking in his throat. 

Charlie hums back at him nonetheless, as if his hesitancy were answer enough. He pushes off the counter and moves closer to Draco, eyes narrowing with mischief or suspicion, Draco’s not sure which. 

“I Floo-called Bill the other day—”

“Oi!” Harry shouts from just outside the kitchen door. “Move it, people.” And then to Draco’s astonishment he hears the turn-over of a Muggle engine kick to life with a roar. 

Draco turns to look, distracted. “What in the—”

“—he wanted to apologise.” 

“Wait, what?” Draco refocuses on Charlie, mind whirling at the memory of that sound. He’s heard it before, years and years ago. 

“Bill’s been carrying a bit of guilt with him all these years.” 

“Guilt? Bill? I—”

“What did I say?” Harry calls again, engine revving along with his ire. Draco’s nerves are shot through with panic as he jumps for the second time in as many minutes and shakes his head clear of confusion. 

Charlie is running his hand through his ginger hair, streaked with strands of white, making it appear almost blonde. “He’s in a mood.” 

“It’s my fault,” Draco says, moving towards the door, Charlie at his heels. 

“That’s the thing, I’m not sure it is.” 

They push out into the morning sunlight with rain clouds looming heavy on the horizon. 

“We’re in for some weather it seems.” 

“Will you two move it?” Harry asks, impatient as ever. Draco comes to an abrupt halt when he sees the source of the growling engine idling before them. Sirius’ motorbike is sitting in Harry’s back garden on the isle of Inishmore and Draco can not reconcile the incongruous sight. 

“How did you?” 

Charlie elbows him in the side, his ever-present smile back on his freckled, warm face. “Had it shipped over by Muggle boat. Brilliant, eh?” 

“Brilliant,” Draco repeats, dumbfounded and trying his best to stem the flow of memories rushing through him. The phantom feel of Harry’s smooth leather jacket against his sweaty palms on his first ride with him over the London rooftops; the heady vibration of the engine beneath his thighs as Harry fucks into him hard and hot from behind, Draco draped like a luxurious silk over the handlebars, purring along with the machine as Harry pulls back on his hair, the sting sending a zip of pleasure down his spine; the two of them hovering midair over the Manor’s grounds, kissing with happy abandon as a final _fuck you_ to Draco’s conservative upbringing; flying like a demon over the cliffs of Cornwall, beaming at the turquoise blue water below having never seen an ocean so clear; never feeling happier in his young life than when he was seated behind Harry on that beautiful bike. 

Charlie’s snapping his fingers in front of Draco’s face. “You alright there, Malfoy?” 

“Fine,” he rasps. 

Somehow Teddy has shown up without Draco noticing, because he’s rubbing a soothing circle into Draco’s back, a look of worry on his kind face. 

“That rain won't hold off much longer,” is all Harry says to them before shoving the kickstand back and releasing the clutch. Draco watches him take off, then Charlie just behind him, his heart racing. Harry had seen his face, he’d known where Draco’s mind had gone. Showing the bike to him was a calculated play. 

“Your godfather is a Slytherin at heart, you know,” Draco tells Teddy, gripping his broom handle with too much force. 

“Well, sure.” 

“You’re not surprised by that?” Draco asks. 

Teddy shrugs. “I take it as a compliment, really.” 

“You are a fascinating young man, Theodore.” 

Teddy grins at him before kicking off and encouraging him to catch up and Draco, reluctantly, does. 

Much to Draco’s dislike and discomfort, the rain hadn’t held out, and they're all currently being drowned in their boots in the pissing deluge hammering down on them. The Thestrals, however, seem impervious to the weather, flapping their large, leather-like wings with ease, as if today were any other day. 

The only sound Draco can make out over the storm is the roaring of the motorbike engine, currently circling below them all along the cliff’s edge, Harry’s expression stern, as though he were nothing but a marble statue come to life, blood-warm yet forever rigid. 

The foals fly in figures of eight below Draco, swooping and diving in and out of air gusts and in and around their mothers. They seem delighted by the rain, encouraged by its pressure on their wings. Draco doesn’t understand it but he feels a bit of comfort in knowing that the animals are not affected. That is, until he spots one lone foal, dipping lower and lower towards the waves, its mother hovering nearby, wings flapping in an agitated rhythm, hooves scrambling beneath her as if in a frenzy. Teddy is moving ever closer to them, having also spotted the alarm. 

Draco shoots forward towards the pair, his nerves spiking along with his shoulders as a thunderclap rings out above them. Just beyond he can see a break in the black clouds, a slice of light cutting along the horizon. He wills it ever closer, needing a reprieve from the onslaught. 

“What’s wrong?” He shouts to Teddy, pointing to the foal.

Teddy shakes his head. “She’s struggling, don’t know why,” he calls back before dipping below the foal and shooting a levitation charm at her. It works for a few minutes, her wings righting themselves enough to catch the breeze but then she dips again, closer to the waves once more. Draco, too nervous and too new to this experience to know better, dives to follow, attempting the same charm but it doesn’t take. Teddy flies to his side, shouting something to him but he can’t hear over the wind and the waves and he’s too concerned for the foal to care. 

“ _Draco!_ ” He hears, but realises a moment too late that he’s hearing Harry’s voice inside his mind and not over the rain. He shakes himself and refocuses on the foal, sending air gusts up under her wings and levitation charms at her to encourage her away from the dangers below. It’s not working, and she’s only dipping closer to the water. Draco follows. 

Teddy pulls hard at Draco’s arm and Draco rips himself free, shooting Teddy a glare above him. Teddy is shouting to him but he can’t hear it, only the roaring of an engine coming closer is audible through the cacophony of nature around them. 

The foal is losing her battle against the ensuing waves as they reach up towards her like Death’s embrace. Gangly legs kick out with too much force, splashing in the water, her wings flapping too fast. Draco can see the panic in her wide milky eyes, her straining neck trying to reach her mother, who is now hovering just above the wave break, too scared to dip lower. Draco curses the Thestral and dives for the young beast just as its poor body gives out, wings going limp at its sides. 

“DRACO!” 

The water consumes him, flooding into his nostrils and his ears like ice-cold knives digging into his skin. His fingers close over one bony leg and he pulls, determined. He breaks above the waves, one hand on his broom, the other now clutched around the neck of the poor foal, draping her legs over the front of the broom handle. Another wave crashes, sends them careening towards the jagged rocks of the cliff, Draco feels the slice of one through his shin, cries out in pain. He’s holding his wand in his broom hand, forces magic to will the broom higher, out of the water, out of the waves. The ancient magic of the island does funny things to his own power though and he can feel it waning, feel the sense of levitation losing out to the gravity of the heaving water below. 

There’s a roar above them and Draco’s not sure if it’s Harry screaming for him or the engine coming alive in a bloom of fire, but he seems flames and smoke and before he knows it there are strong hands hauling him over the back of the bike and the foal is there, seated in Harry’s lap like a too-large hairless cat, looking waterlogged but breathing. 

They’re climbing, higher and higher above the cursed waves, away from the danger, the bike’s engine sputtering and backfiring as they ascend. Draco’s coughing up saltwater, his throat raw from his heaves and his body shivering with the cold. He doesn’t care, as soon as he feels the wheels touch down on solid rock he’s pushing himself off the back of the blasted bike and falling to his knees in front of the foal’s face. 

“Come on, sweetheart, come on,” he says to her, petting back the leather-like head and ears. He scrambles for his wand and shoots warming charm after warming charm at the shaking beast, hearing teeth chatter and then belatedly realising they’re his own. 

Someone is handling him, gripping his shoulders, his face, pushing his hair off his forehead, pressing two fingers at his pulse point at his wrist, another to the gouge in his right leg. Draco cries out at the sensation, having forgotten about the rocks before a sudden numbing charm takes away the pain. 

“You’re bleeding. Fuck, you’re bleeding.” Green eyes are tearing lines across Draco’s body, the emotion inside them stabbing harder at Draco’s heart than the ice-cold chill of the Atlantic below. 

Draco shoves Harry away and moves back to the foal. Harry follows. Draco hexes him and Harry deflects it with a swipe of his hand. 

Anger crashes over him like the treacherous tide. “How could . . . you were just . . . you were going to let her die?” He’s shivering too hard to truly shout and it pisses him off even more. 

“You’re hurt.” 

“Who cares?” 

“I do.” 

“What about that poor beast!?” Draco points, dropping to his knees once more to pet the bundled mass of bone and leather curled into a tight ball, a self-preservation tactic to collect warmth, no doubt. He pulls the foal into his lap, cradling her. 

Harry’s speaking and Draco refocuses. 

“. . . sometimes we lose a foal—”

“But you could have done something!” Draco cuts him off. 

“She flew too close to the waves.” 

“And that’s an excuse to let her die?” 

“No, it isn’t,” Harry snaps, “but sometimes these things—”

“You can’t conjure a protective barrier?” 

“That’s not how it’s done! How are they supposed to learn their limits?” 

“So the alternative is to let them die?” 

“No! The alternative is to not let yourself die, dammit!” 

“I’m fine!” 

“Because I saved you!” 

_“I didn’t want you to fucking save me!_ ” 

This outburst is met with fire burning in Harry’s eyes at Draco’s implication, the aura around him seething green and fearful. Breathing heavily, Harry jabs his wand in Draco's direction, sparks shooting out the end as he speaks. 

“Don’t you dare, Draco. I know more about loss than you ever will. We don’t get to give up.” 

The dam inside Draco’s heart bursts open and he feels a surge of pure animalistic fury explode through him as the world turns red. “Fuck you!” 

“No, fuck you. Do you know how close I was to losing you just now? How sharp the rocks are; how strong the current is? There’s a reason we don’t fly down that low and your chattering teeth and bloodied body are proving my point for me,” Harry spits, looking Draco up and down with a mixture of rage and terror. 

Draco’s lip quivers as he clings to the poor shivering beast in his arms, refusing to let her go. She’s just as cold as he is, her muzzle buried in Draco’s neck under the fall of his soaked hair, seeking warmth he doesn’t currently possess. He conjures a towel, and then another, wrapping the young thing in their fuzzy warmth, cooing at her, soothing her. Just off to the side behind a drowned-looking Charlie, the Thestral’s mother paws at the dirt, uneasy and anxious. 

Draco ignores the looks all around him and stands, holding the gangly, awkward creature in his weakened grip, back aching at the unexpected weight, his right leg in danger of giving out beneath him. He refuses to appear weak in front of the men who were about to let the poor beast in his arms drown and storms off towards the stables, head held as high as he can muster as pain rockets through his body every other step. 

He’s halfway across the field when another numbing charm curls around his bloodied leg, Harry’s magic seeping into his bones like a salve. Draco halts, closes his eyes at the intoxicating sensation then curses. 

“I don’t want your pity,” he says, low and hurting. 

_It isn’t pity_ , he hears in his mind. 

* * *

“Scorpius! Answer me right now!” 

A bewildered-looking Scorpius pokes his head out from behind the parlour room door, brows furrowed. “Papa?” 

“Who else would be calling?” 

Scorpius enters the room, and approaches the fire, long legs folding as he seats himself on the hearth rug, his expression of concern still in place. 

“You look—”

“I almost drowned.” 

“What?” Scorpius moves forward on his hands and knees, terror showing in his eyes. “Papa, what happened?” 

Draco takes a moment to calm himself. Seeing Scorpius’ reaction brings a sense of levity to the conversation and he suddenly feels awful for the way he’s spoken to his son. 

“I’m sorry, Scorpius, I’m fine. Look, I’m breathing and everything. Plus, my head is literally in a fire, so it’s not as if I’ll catch a chill.” 

“You look like shit.” 

Taken aback, Draco scoffs. “Rude.” 

“Accurate.” Scorpius waits a beat before adding. “Papa, what’s wrong? You’re freaking me out.” 

“I’m coming home.” 

Scorpius’ eyes narrow. “No.” 

“Yes.” 

“No!” He stands, brushing soot from his tailored trousers. He’s towering over his father now, one arm braced above the hearth for extra leverage. “You’re to stay there for the duration, Papa, it’s what we all agreed on.” 

“It’s what you and Granger agreed on!” 

“She’s Mrs Weasley now, Papa, how many times do—”

“I know!” Draco snaps. “I don’t care. She’s Granger to me and nothing but an authority figure to you, why on earth would you two conspire to—”

“She’s my boss. And also my aunt.” 

“Second aunt. Once removed.” 

“Whatever. She’s family. She cares. So does Teddy, and Bill and Fleur and . . . you promised.” That last is said with a voice so quiet, so broken that Draco’s heart hurts at the sound. 

Draco slumps his shoulders in the fire, feeling wrung out and utterly deflated. 

“I can’t stay here, Scorpius. It’s killing me.” 

“You were killing yourself, Papa.” 

“I . . . I know,” Draco says, the admission closing up his throat with emotion. He looks up, sees the tears in Scorpius’ eyes and wants to reach out to console him, missing him terribly. “I’m sorry.” 

“I told you. You don’t have to apologise. Just try.” 

“Try,” Draco repeats, nodding slowly. He had said he would try, hadn’t he?

“I love you,” Scorpius says, so genuine it makes Draco’s eyes burn with tears. 

“I love you too.” 

“Get some sleep. I’ll come visit soon.” 

Draco feels a brush of his son’s fingers through his hair before the connection closes and the tears break free of his lashes, trailing a searing path down his cheeks and chin. Behind him, the foal nuzzles at his neck, her legs sturdy once more, her leathery wings folded neatly at her sides. Draco hasn’t left her alone since the incident on the cliffs, bringing her back with him to his room and making a space for her in front of the hearth, piled high with blankets and pouffes. He can hear the whinny of the foal’s mother just outside the window and moves to unlatch the pane, allowing the mother to crane her neck inside the room, snuffling at her child’s head. 

* * *

Gabrielle pushes back Scorpius’ fringe off his forehead, feeling the burning of the fever just below his uncommonly pink skin. 

“He’s on fire,” she says, voice shot through with worry. Draco squeezes her shoulder. 

“The healer’s on their way.” 

“But he’s so warm, Draco.” 

“I know,” he soothes, taking Scorpius from her arms. He presses a hand to her forehead, feeling a fever of equal heat burning under her own skin and frowns at her, his worry compounding. “Gabrielle you’re burning up.” 

“It’s not me, it’s Scorpius,” she says, slightly breathless from the heat. 

Draco tilts his head in question. Gabrielle moves to hold Draco’s hand, reassuring and firm. “I feel what he’s feeling. Like you and I but now with Scorpius too.” 

“I never knew.” Bewildered, Draco looks down at his young son, testing the waters of his own connection to him but not sensing a phantom fever affecting him, only the vague discomfort in Gabrielle’s body vibrating out to him. Instead, he sees the flarings of his son’s aura, sparking in golds and creams around him, the flickering quality a telling sign of danger. 

Just then, the fire behind them roars to life in a shock of green flames, the Healer stepping through, potion satchel in hand. 

“May I?” she asks and Draco hands over his precious boy, moving to hold Gabrielle about the waist, grip tight. 

Two hours later, the Healer is at a loss and Gabrielle’s simultaneous symptoms are only worsening. Draco has bitten his nails down to their quicks, drained half a bottle of Ogden’s in his worry and fear, and can’t stand a moment longer of the Healer’s ineffectual prodding before he says, “Enough.” 

Gabrielle looks at him, concern etched all over her reddened, sweat-sheened face. Draco leans down, kisses her damp forehead and stalks to the fire. “I’m getting Granger.” 

“What is she—”

“This is a Muggle fever, I’m sure of it. And Granger will know what to do.” 

“It’s two in the morning—” the Healer begins to say but Draco silences her with a single, seething look. 

“You may stay for assistance but I no longer trust your counsel, Madame. Do not touch my child again.” 

He throws Floo powder in the grate and steps through not a moment later, understanding with an utter certainty that the next time he thinks back on this night he will know he’d done the right thing in seeking out Granger and all her infinite wisdom in his most desperate time of need. 

* * *

“Remember the night Scorpius came down with the red fever?” Draco asks, a week after the foal incident at the cliffs. 

Hermione frowns at him, pouring milk into her tea. She’d just arrived at The Sanctuary that morning with Rose and Hugo for a weekend getaway while Ron visits Charlie in Romania. Draco has introduced the foal to Rose and Hugo, whom he’s named Cymopoleia after the ancient Greek goddess of violent seas, but calls Pol for short. They’re now off zooming about the back garden on brooms with the beast, Teddy standing guard and laughing at their antics just outside the door. 

“Scarlet fever,” Hermione corrects. “And yes. Whatever made you think of that?” 

Draco shakes his head. “Not sure.” 

“What a night that was,” she says, commiserating. 

“He would have died without you.” 

Hermione puts her hand atop Draco’s. “Stop that.” 

“Stop what?” 

She squeezes his fingers. “You saved that little foal, and Harry saved you. You did a noble thing, Draco.” 

“I wasn’t trying to be noble,” he says, pulling his hand out from under hers. He’d genuinely wanted to save Pol. No parent deserves to lose their child, but he’d also had a death wish that day, in that moment as he dove beneath the waves. Harry had known and hadn’t let Draco chase it to its inevitable conclusion. That knowledge grated. 

Hermione smiles at him, knowingly and without judgement, before turning to watch her children through the back door. 

“How is he?” she asks, catching Draco off guard a few minutes later. 

“Who?” 

She rolls her eyes. “You know who.” 

Draco stares at his tea, throat working. “He’s . . . distant.” 

“He’s scared.” 

“Of me?” 

This question is met with a noncommittal shrug. Draco waits for more but Hermione remains stubbornly quiet, sipping her tea. Draco feels untethered in that moment, loose amongst the tide and not comfortable without having a solid grounding under his feet. 

“He wrote to me the day you saved the foal.” 

Draco lifts his head. He’d been concentrating on the grain in the tabletop. “He did?” 

“Yup.” 

Draco waits again. After a few moment’s silence Hermione says, “He was terrified of losing you again.” 

_Again_ , Draco thinks, closing his eyes, and feels his heart kick in his chest. 

“He’s been making himself scarce?” Hermione asks, eyebrow raised. Draco nods, too shaken by her previous confession to speak. “I wonder why.” 

* * *

The sun has long descended behind the cliffs when Harry slips into the steaming pool of water out back behind the kitchen garden. He sighs out into the cool night air, feeling the ache in his bones leaching out into the hot water, along with the pressures of the day. He takes a moment to run his hand over the smoothed rock, remembering the weeks it took for him and Charlie to magically carve out the bowl of the pool, then conduct the water to always radiate at an even 38 degrees. He’d only been living on the island for a year but the indulgence felt necessary at the time. 

It was tiring work, and frivolous too, creating an oversized spring pool of mineral-rich hot water for Harry to soak his bones in every night, but as the years pass he finds himself more and more contented with having such a source of relaxation at his fingertips, mere steps out his back door. 

With Draco Malfoy around, he’s even more grateful. 

Harry hears him before he sees him. He knows he’s there, even after all this time Harry can sense Draco’s presence like a phantom touch upon his skin. It’s unsettling to realise Draco can still elicit such a reaction from him, but at least it gives Harry the advantage of knowing when he’s snooping around where he shouldn’t. 

“Coming to join me?” 

Draco jumps, eyes going wide as he spots Harry neck-deep in the steaming water. Harry watches him visibly gather himself into some semblance of composure and chokes down a chuckle at Draco’s expense. So, he hadn’t been snooping after all, he’d just been wandering about the grounds. That’s fine, Harry thinks. He knows that time has not been kind to Draco as of late, and Harry has not made it any easier during his few weeks here on Inishmore. He’s watched Draco walk around his house with the weight of the world on his shoulders, the blame he feels for the death of his wife etched so clearly across his face Harry wonders how no one else besides Scorpius had noticed sooner that the man was two seconds away from hurtling himself bodily from one of the cliffs. Witnessing Draco almost succeed in this task not seven days prior had sent a jolt of electricity through Harry’s veins, reawakening something long held dormant inside him. As he watches Draco approach him now, he feels it again, like a shock to the system, a startling reminder of being alive. 

_There it is_ , Harry notes, seeing that look again on Draco’s face. The blame and the hurt he holds so near like a shield against experiencing life once more. 

Harry has long since buried his deep-rooted resentment towards Gabrielle (and the painful truth that she could provide a Malfoy heir whilst Harry could not) in the decades since her and Draco’s wedding. He had an entire island’s worth of coastline to scream out his embittered thoughts to, allowing them to get lost in the gale. Even though Harry had often wished things had gone differently in their youth, he never would have hoped for such tragedy to befall Scorpius and his beloved father. No one deserves to lose the people they love, no matter what age or circumstance. Harry knows that more than anyone. 

Because of this fierce belief, Harry holds back from teasing Draco for his undignified squeak of surprise. Such immaturity will not endear him to the man any more than he already has, what with his gruff behaviour and frequent disappearances whenever Draco's been around since the incident at the cliffs. 

He’s been too shaken to accept the repetition of disturbing images that plague his mind whenever he’s near Draco now. Seeing his white-blond head disappearing under the waves, a large crest colliding on the spot where he had just slipped beneath the surface with more and more water, froth, foam, gathering together to swallow Draco whole. Harry had known in that moment his shouts were going unheard to anyone else but Draco, having felt a flair of connection ignite between them. He hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on the consequences of such a phenomenon, his focus set on finding Draco, saving him, protecting him from harm. It was only the power of the island, so well paired with Harry’s own particular magic, that allowed him to pull Draco and the foal from the unforgiving depths. A ripple of magic so raw Harry’s hands burned red hot at the exertion of channelling it. 

Feeling his fingers prickle at the memory, Harry comes back to himself at the sound of Draco’s voice. To Harry’s astonishment, he’s attempting to apologise for disturbing him. 

“Merlin, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” Draco cuts himself off and turns to leave but Harry is moved to stop him and raises his hand, halting his departure. 

“You don’t—” Harry starts but stalls out when words fail him. 

Draco frowns. “I don’t?” 

“You don’t. . . have to go.” Harry says. He pushes his tangled curls off his sweat-soaked brow and gestures to the steaming water of the pool. “Please, stay.” 

This invitation is met with a raised eyebrow. “Stay? Am I nothing but a crup to you, Potter?”

Harry scoffs and bites out, “Merlin, Draco, do you have to make everything—” he stops himself, forces down his emotions with a swig of whiskey from a flask he’s left perched on the side of the stone basin and tries again. 

“Draco,” Harry chooses his words carefully, “please feel free to join me.” Then, with a smile, “The water’s fine.” 

Draco pulls the lapels of his dressing gown closer over his chest, as if Harry had the ability to strip him bare with his eyes. That thought creates quite an image in Harry’s mind but he ignores it in place of trying to seem as welcoming as possible to the man standing awkwardly across from him, barefoot, bemused, and looking thoroughly skeptical. 

“Is this a . . . hot spring?” 

Harry can’t help it, he grins. “Sort of.” 

“Granger informed me that there were no hot springs on the island.” 

At this, Harry laughs. “She’d be right.” 

“Then what, pray tell, am I staring at, Potter?” 

Harry shrugs. “A glorified hot tub?” 

“Is that a Muggle contraption?” 

“Sure.” 

“Are hot tubs anything like the spring-fed pools in Bath?” 

“Sure. Except this one’s better.” 

“I see.” Draco stares down at the steam rising steadily into the night air, his face pinking from the residual heat. After a moment, Harry sees resolve firm in his eyes and watches as Draco turns to drape his dressing gown over a nearby stone wall. Harry’s breath catches at seeing the silver fall of Draco’s silken hair brush across the lines of his back when Draco pulls his nightshirt over his head, followed by his matching trousers, exposing endless amounts of cream-coloured skin to Harry. Along with a rather skinny, yet pert backside that Harry remembers quite— 

Harry turns his eyes away, clearing his throat. 

“What? Don’t tell me you’ve become a prude in your advanced age, Potter?” 

“I’m forty-five, _Malfoy_.”

“My point, exactly.” 

Harry snorts out a laugh. 

Draco slips into the pool on the other side of the basin with a grace that barely disturbs the surface tension of the water. Harry can’t help but watch as Draco lowers himself carefully into the steaming pool, his mouth dropping open into an ‘oh’ of pleasant surprise, no doubt at the temperature. Harry had spelled it rather high this evening. 

“Merlin,” Draco sighs, looking amazed. “This is—”

Harry nods in silent agreement as Draco is rendered speechless, possibly for the first time in his life. 

They sit quietly for a few moments, the only sounds around them are the small swirls of the water and the gentle neighing in the distance coming from the Thestral stables around the other side of the cottage. Draco sinks further into the pool, leaning his head back on the smoothed stone behind him, staring up at the sky. 

“It’s beautiful here,” he says, swishing his arms through the water, creating small crests of waves that lap repeatedly at Harry’s flushed skin. 

“It is.” 

“I can see why you like it, though I’ll never understand why you had to abandon everyone for it.” 

Harry’s entire body tenses. The tentative calm that had settled over them shatters in an instant. 

“That’s a shit thing to say, Draco.” 

“Is it?” he asks, head still lolling back, his blond hair curling around his neck in long tendrils along the surface of the water like fingers tightening around his throat. “I think it’s honest.” 

“Sod your honesty.” 

Draco looks to Harry then, his eyes a severe crease of anger. “Why so defensive, Potter? Is it because I’m the only one man enough to tell you what a selfish coward you’ve been all these years?” 

Water splashes around them as Harry sits up. “Fuck you. I’m no coward.” 

“Then why did you leave?” Draco snaps.

“Why did you?” Harry retorts, his voice carrying on the wind. 

“Oh, this isn’t about me, Harry. This is about Granger. Weasley. Bill. Fleur, all of them. You left your entire fucking family.” 

“I had reason!” 

Their collective breathing in the ensuing silence comes like a rushing tide crashing against the cliffs to Harry’s ears and he turns away from Draco, moving to hoist himself out of the water. Draco’s there before he can even get a hand on the flat surface of the basin, forcing him back into the water. He pushes him hard against the dip of rock Harry had been using as a seat, crowding him with the press of both his body and his magic. Harry glares at the presence of it, nostrils flaring at the assault it havocs on his senses—crackling energy and wet heat, choking steam, slicked skin, and anger. They’ve always been like this, since they were children, possessing this split-second ability to go from civility to overwhelming rage, a curse the two of them have carried collectively with them throughout life. Experiencing it now, so raw and visceral and real, right in front of him for the first time in decades, Harry’s heart kicks in his chest, adrenaline pooling like bitter fire in the back of his throat. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, staring hard at where Draco’s got his hand wrapped tight around Harry’s wrist, the tendons beneath straining. 

“Keeping you from running. Again.” 

Harry jerks in his grip, furious, water sluicing between them. “Fuck you. You left!” 

“It was a fight.” 

“I know!” 

“We always fought. We’d always make up.” 

“Not always. Clearly.” Harry jerks again. It only serves to pull Draco closer. His knee is braced beside Harry’s thigh. He can feel the heat of Draco’s skin searing into his own. He attempts to shift away. Draco crowds him. 

“Harry,” Draco says, voice soft. “I shouldn’t have gone, but I needed time.” 

“Twenty-three years enough for you, then?” Harry spits at him, turning his face from the intensity Draco is directing towards him. His shoulders are straining, neck muscles pulling taut from the continued effort of keeping his instincts at bay. 

They’re on a precipice, balance slipping. Harry can see in Draco’s eyes that he’s made up his mind, or has simply lost his mind, ready to fall either way. Yet, Harry hesitates. He hasn’t felt like this in years and the realisation terrifies him. 

Draco moves, making the decision for them both by releasing his wrist and draping his leg over Harry’s hips, straddling him without warning. His arms are braced on the stone behind Harry’s neck, his head bowed so that his hair falls in a wet curtain over his shoulder, blocking out the light from the cottage just beyond. Harry, exhausted from holding himself together under Draco’s gaze, slumps in the water, giving in to Draco’s preternatural strength, willing the inevitable. 

The water rippling against the basin echoes around them, licking at their exposed skin. Harry refuses to draw breath, his lungs burning until finally, his mind screaming for oxygen and his body reacting to Draco’s presence, his patience snaps and he exhales, harsh and hurting. Draco, losing a battle all his own, sinks down lower, coming to sit fully atop Harry’s thighs. Harry’s eyes prickle at the corners and he blinks away the sting, the relief of skin finally meeting skin like a gut punch to his senses. 

“Fuck,” Harry says, his head falling back against the smooth stone of the basin, closing his eyes against the onslaught of emotions warring within him. “Draco, what are you doing?” 

“Getting your attention.” 

Harry looks back up. “You’ve always had my attention.” 

“Not recently.” 

“I’m pretty sure your son didn’t send you here for _this_.” Harry bucks, letting Draco feel the length of him against his inner thigh. 

Draco snorts out an undignified chuckle. 

“What do you think Scorpius sent me here for?” 

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know, Draco. People come here for all kinds of reasons. Escape, adventure, curiosity—” 

“Yes, but I’m not a tourist, Harry. I’m a broken man in search of atonement for my sins.” 

Swallowing hard, Harry stares back at Draco’s unnaturally darkened eyes, taking in the truth of that statement and the unquestioning vulnerability Draco has just laid out before him. Harry reaches for the first thought that comes to him and says, “You’ve already atoned for your sins, Draco. Many times over.” 

Draco shifts, sitting further back on Harry’s thighs. Harry feels the loss of his heat and moves to rest his hands on Draco’s hips, halting his retreat. Draco allows it and Harry squeezes gently. “What are you still atoning for?” 

Moving to fold his arms across his chest Draco looks away from Harry, his jaw jutting out in tight resentment. “I thought it was just for my dead wife, but apparently our separation was also entirely my fault, so I suppose that too.” 

“That wasn’t your fault.” 

“I know!” 

“No, Draco. I don’t mean us. Gabrielle.” Draco’s eyes snap to Harry’s as he continues. “Her death wasn’t your fault.” 

“How the fuck do you know?” Draco bites out, his body rigid with strain. 

“Common sense.” 

Draco lunges to strike Harry but Harry’s quicker and he grabs his hand before Draco can do any damage. They wrestle in the hot water, steam and magic surging all around them as Harry attempts to gain control. He succeeds by pinning one arm behind Draco’s back, wrenching back his shoulder and forcing their bodies together, trapping Draco’s other arm against Harry’s chest. Heaving, Draco stares down at Harry, eyes dark, red-rimmed and brimming with tears. 

“You’re not a god, Draco. You can’t control death. People die of sickness every day, it’s no one’s fault.” 

“I should have done—”

“More than what you did? That’s not possible.” 

“How the hell do you know?” 

“Hermione told me.” 

Draco looks to him in shock, his self-loathing so evident it cuts Harry deep to see it so up close. 

Harry tries again. “Draco, listen to me.” 

The water splashes as Draco yanks against Harry’s hold but Harry doesn’t give in, he simply squeezes Draco harder until he feels him flinch, reaching his threshold. Draco hisses. “Careful.” 

“Why? You were going to hit me.” 

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Liar,” Harry says, pressing Draco’s arm further against his back. Draco arches in response, seeking relief. 

“Careful!” he repeats, voice thin. 

“Worried you’ll bruise?” 

Draco looks down at Harry, livid. “You know I bruise.” 

“I do. Too pale.” 

Draco jerks against him. “You never complained.” 

A moment passes. Quiet, heavy. Finally, Harry shakes his head. “No, not about that.” 

Draco nods. “Only other things.” His tone sounding hurt and tentative in a way Harry isn’t used to hearing. He knows they’re getting to the crux of it now. 

“It’s been quite a few years since we were twenty-two, Draco. I’ve grown up.” 

Draco meets his eyes. “So have I.” 

“Yet you blame yourself for her death?” 

“How many deaths do you blame yourself for—” Draco says before gasping out in pain. Harry had squeezed too hard at Draco’s words, but at the sight of Draco’s eyes snapping shut, Harry releases him and slumps back against the rim of the basin. 

“Fuck,” he says, scrubbing his face with his wet hands. “I’m sorry.” 

Arms falling to his sides, Harry looks at the expanse of pale chest in front of him, and the white, blunt contrast of the scars he caused so many years ago, feeling the leaching suck of his own self-hatred pulling him under. How many more times will Harry continue to hurt the people he loves? 

Draco’s face comes into Harry’s vision, his eyes clear, concerned. “Harry,” he’s saying, though his voice sounds distant. “Harry, look at me.” 

Harry does.“What?” 

“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.” 

Harry shakes his head. Draco talks over him. “I do blame myself, Harry, and I don’t know how to change that, but that doesn’t mean I have the right to bring up your past trauma just to distract from my own. Listen to me,” he says, grabbing Harry’s shoulders, forcing his attention. “I’m sorry, Harry.” 

“I’m sorry too,” Harry mumbles, turning his head away. Draco pushes it back in his direction with a single knuckle under his chin. 

“No, look at me.” 

Harry’s mouth pulls at a smile, sad and small. “I’m always looking at you, Draco.” 

“I’ve only been here a few weeks. What about before then?” 

A shrug. “Memory is a powerful thing.” 

“So is grief.”

“Yes,” Harry says, feeling the weight of the moment, along with the weight of Draco’s thighs pressed so tightly against his own. The shared love and loss between them along with the shared heat radiating from water, and the sombre note the evening has struck ring out around them. They’re surrounded by an endless sky streaked with starlight and thick clouds of steam radiating from the pool yet there’s never enough distraction to keep their demons at bay. Harry doesn’t want to feel the melancholy sting of such histories any longer, he’s sick of it. He wants it gone—no, repressed. Pushed down for the sake of the moment. Covered up and put away for a time. 

Forcing himself back to the present, Harry moves, pushing forward off the wet stone, hands twisting into the back of Draco’s hair to guide his head down where Harry wants it, needs it most. Draco’s hands come up to frame Harry’s face, halting his lips from meeting his own in the single breath left to take between decision and action. 

“What are you doing?” Draco asks, voice warm in the close space between them. 

“Getting your attention,” Harry whispers, and tugs hard, pressing his open mouth to Draco’s.

* * *

Draco shuffles out barefoot from the bedroom, his mouth wide with a fresh yawn when he hears the creak of the kitchen chair. 

“Morning,” Scorpius says, hands steepled in front of him. “Or should I say, good evening? I really can’t tell at this odd hour of night, yah know?” 

Draco stills, blinking at the sight before him while simultaneously panicking at the thought of what lies behind him in the dim light cascading through the bedroom doorway. “Scorpius.” 

“That is my name, yes.” 

“You’re here.” 

“Well spotted.” 

Anger spikes at Draco’s temples and he frowns. “You know, your attitude is not becoming.” 

“Nor is that pattern on you.” 

Draco looks down at Harry’s flannel dressing gown, the clashing tartan of green and red appearing sickly against his too-pale skin, and then back up at his son, hoping his face doesn’t betray the guilt he feels. 

“Shall I make tea?” he asks, eyebrows raised. 

Scorpius answers with a raised eyebrow of his own. “Would you like tea?” 

Moving to stand at his full height, Draco nods. “Yes, I would, in fact.” 

“Then, by all means, make tea.” 

Draco scowls at his son. “You know, I don’t like this. Come here.” 

Scorpius hesitates for a moment before moving to stand and walking towards his father. Draco reaches out as soon as he’s within arms reach and pulls him into a fierce hug, pressing his cheek to his son’s hair, allowing the familiar scent of his soap to fill his senses and soothe his rattled nerves. 

“Missed you,” Scorpius says, his voice muffled in the flannel at Draco’s shoulder. 

“Of course you did, you brat.” 

“Can we have a proper drink though?” Scorpius asks, pulling back with a questioning look. 

“Oh, thank Merlin.” Draco nods. “Yes.” He flicks his wrist at the door behind him, closing it wandlessly and moves with his son towards the kitchen and the small drinks cart under the window by the dining table. 

“Gin?” He prompts. 

“Please.” 

Draco pours and hands a glass to Scorpius. They silently toast and raise their respective glasses for a sip. Neither bothers to speak and after a few painful moments of this, Draco snaps and sits down at the table with an undignified thunk. 

“Right, out with it,” he says, gesturing to his son, his patience waning.

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean the tension in your shoulders. It’s killing me. So out with it. What do you want to know?” Draco sits back and folds his arms, hoping beyond hope that he still appears intimidating to his fully grown son while wearing the most ridiculous dressing gown in existence. 

Scorpius’ eyes widen for an instant before he looks to the bedroom door and then back to his father. Draco watches the mental calculations Scorpius is making as he chooses which path he’s going to take, what chess piece to move next. Draco stares down at his glass, allowing his son a moment to gather his thoughts. 

A minute passes, and then—

“Fine. Why’d you leave him?” 

Draco looks up, mouth forming the question just as Scorpius answers it for him. “Mr Potter. Why’d you leave him?”

Draco is too stunned to be bothered by the shockingly blunt nature of Scorpius’ question. “You mean just now . . . well, I was thirsty—”

Scorpius squeezes his eyes shut and shoots back his drink in one. He drops his glass down to the table with a satisfying thud against the wood, shakes his head fiercely and says, “No, I didn’t mean just now, but thank you for that visual, dear father. Merlin’s tits,” he looks to the ceiling before gathering himself once more. “I meant before.” 

“Before—?”

“Teddy remembers you,” Scorpius says, barreling forward.

Draco’s at a loss for how quickly this conversation is going. He takes a pull of his own drink, swallows and starts again. “Of course, he remembers me. You’ve all been to school—”

“No, before that,” Scorpius interrupts. “Before school. When you and Mr Potter were young and Teddy was still a kid. He remembers you.” 

Draco’s mouth falls open in undignified astonishment. He’d been a baby, a toddler at best, there was no way Teddy should remember such a fleeting moment in his life. 

“But he was so—”

Scorpius interrupts him again before Draco can even attempt to explain. “Teddy told me that you two were together.”

It takes a moment, but when Draco registers what Scorpius has just said, he feels his throat tighten painfully. The startling truth of that history brought back to haunt him not only from living under Harry’s roof these past weeks but by his own son's discovery of what Draco has tried to long-keep buried cuts him down to the quick. He’s felt the knives of the past carving at his skin for days, but now, under the golden light of an oil lamp, he is flayed open.

Swallowing hard, Draco nods, facing reality with both feet firmly planted. “We were. You knew that.” 

“Bonded, even.” 

There must be a typhoon heading towards the house on a roaring tide. That can be the only explanation for the sound of rushing water in Draco’s ears. He’ll turn around and see the cascade of water pushing in through the back door any moment now. 

Moments pass and no tide threatens to swallow them whole, only Draco’s grief. He looks to his son and very hesitantly nods again. 

Scorpius slumps in his chair, his impeccable posture eradicated in an instant. He looks a wreck of confusion and sorrow and Draco aches to remove such an expression from his son’s face. 

“Scorpius, we were impulsive and had just survived a war. No one was in their right minds back then. It’s not like—” 

“You and Maman.”

Draco flinches at the mention of Gabrielle and is immediately filled with self-loathing at his reaction. What is he even doing? Sitting here in another man’s dressing gown having a stilted, alcohol-fueled conversation with his son. He has no idea how to handle his grief anymore. How to balance his undying love for his wife and this newfound urge to make something more of his own life while he’s still able. He feels shame even thinking that he deserves happiness after Gabrielle’s death, but that had been the reason for Scorpius sending him here in the first place, had it not? Scorpius wanted Draco to move on; to live. 

Draco shifts his chair closer to his son and places a hand across his wrist. Scorpius looks up at him. 

“Your mother was the love of my life.” 

Scorpius is shaking his head, his eyes bright with fear or sadness or some combination of the two and Draco’s guilt deepens further. 

“You’re lying,” he says. 

“I’m not.” 

“Teddy said he used to keep his hair blond. He remembers moments, happy ones, where he’d see you two together, laughing, or just . . . sitting, in the back garden, and the aura surrounding you was blinding. He said he wanted to be blond like you so Harry would love him like he loved you.” 

Draco blinks hard at these words, the amount of new information an assault to his already spinning equilibrium. “Teddy is practically Harry’s son. He adores him.” 

“Of course he—That’s not what I’m saying!” Scorpius snaps, removing his arm from Draco’s grasp. He pushes back from the table and runs his shaking hands through his overlong hair, the strands just a shade darker than Draco’s own. Draco watches as he walks to the drinks cart and grabs a bottle before returning to the table and taking a swig directly from it without the slightest hesitation. 

Draco must make a sound of protest because Scorpius scoffs at him. “Too low-brow for you, am I? Need I mention what you smell like right now?” 

“No!” Draco hastens to say, but Scorpius ignores him. He’s looking off into the middle distance, pensive and fierce. Sometimes Scorpius is so much like him, Draco aches with grief that he hadn’t taught him how to handle his emotions better. 

“Teddy sees auras like us, Papa.” 

“Well, he’s—”

“I know what he is,” Scorpius snaps. “That isn’t—the point is, he knows. Has known. Since he was three years old.”

“Knows what?” Draco asks, closing his eyes, terrified of the answer. 

“That Mr Potter is ‘the love of your life,’ Papa. Not Maman.” 

It’s an instant visceral reaction. Draco physically contorts at the statement, his entire body involuntarily curling in on itself in a twist of shock and pain. He’s grimacing, his hands holding hard to the edge of the solid hand-hewn table, a raw nerve left exposed. 

It’s his turn to push back his chair. He’s at the back door, wrenching it open before he can yell or cry or self-combust from the thunderclap of emotion he’s just experienced. 

Scorpius is shouting something at him but he’s at the garden gate now, the rough rock of the low stone wall biting into his palms as he hurtles over it into the field beyond. He hears the waves of the Atlantic crashing down along the base of the cliff and he follows the sound. Far away from words and memories and expectations and truth left back in the stifling air of Harry’s home. 

The wind is pushing at his back, insistent and herding, shoving him towards the cliff’s edge as if a large hand were ushering him forward. He trips on a rock and stumbles to the ground, scraping his knees on the jagged mix of stone and grass beneath him. As he moves to stand he realises that he’s shaking, violent fits of tremors running through his body. His teeth are chattering. 

Is he cold? No, it’s summer, it’s blustery out but there’s no chill. The insistent wind is warm on his back. He moves his hands to his face, brushing his hair away from his eyes, only to find that his cheeks are wet with tears. He turns to look back at the house, the warm glow of the kitchen window a suspended square in the far off distance. The sight of it reminds him of Gabrielle’s bonding light in his mind’s eye, her warm, reassuring presence sitting at the very edge of his consciousness, keeping him soothed and safe. He shuts his eyes, reaching for that same sense of peace, only to feel the cool sting of darkness in its place. When he opens his eyes again, the house is still there, the window still illuminated along the black horizon, inviting and open. Draco glares and whips his gaze away, needing to find something else to look at, anything else to focus on except that damn light. 

He hears a whinny on the breeze and sees several shapes maring the distance with their movement. The Thestrals are grazing at the sparse grass, their sharp heads nudging at the ground. Draco goes to them, compelled. 

Pol is there, her gangly legs more sturdy now that she’s had more time to grow into them. The week of being pampered and shown affection by Draco, Rose and Huge in turn has done wonders for the young creature’s growth. Draco walks to her, holding out his hand, letting him smell his presence on the edge of the herd. She butts his palm with the bridge of her nose, snorting out a hello to him. 

“Hey there, Pol,” he says, voice small. The greeting is eaten up on the wind but words do not matter to a creature like Pol. She’s instinct-driven, much like Draco. She’d tried so hard to fly, only to give up at the last moment, too spent with the work of having to stay afloat. Draco can’t blame her for the acceptance of her fate in that moment, he’d felt kindred to her, knowing exactly the kind of resignation and pain she must have gone through in her mind to drop her wings and give up the fight. The realisation is terrifying. 

“Don’t,” he starts, cuts himself off. Tries again. “Don’t give up again, okay?” He says, petting her muzzle. Long, smooth strokes of his pale hand against her leathery skin over the jagged bone of her face. “You’re too important.” 

Something spooks the herd just beyond them and he sees Pol jerk out of his touch, shake her head and follow her mother out along the craggy rock. He follows them on foot, wondering at their sudden momentum in the opposite direction of the paddock and the stables, only to find endless sky above him and endless ground to cover beneath his feet. 

A loud neigh cuts through the drone of the galloping herd, and it’s not the call of a Thestral he hears on the wind, having grown used to their calls by now. Draco turns, looking for the source and there, silhouetted by the weak morning light that looms in a haze just beyond the cliff’s edge is a stallion, onyx mane rippling like crashing waves in the sea breeze.

Draco moves with hesitant steps towards the black beast. He raises his hands in a peaceful gesture as the horse’s nostrils flare, snorting out a gust of warm breath against Draco’s palms. Whether it be in warning or approval he knows not, but he steps closer just the same, emboldened by some power he can’t name, a fissure of magic tingling against his skin, urging him forward. 

He’s near enough to touch the long ridge of bone above the horse’s muzzle and without hesitating, pushes his fingers in a caress up past the vast curtain of an overly long, curling mane, smoothing it back and away. There, along the flat plane of the horse’s forehead where Draco would have expected to see a blaze of white marring the pure jet black of the horse’s coat is, instead, a jagged lightning bolt scar cutting across down over the beast’s left eye. 

Draco breathes out a gasp, laying his hand flat over the scar, and touches his forehead to the horse’s bowed head. 

“You’re beautiful,” Draco says, and then, inexplicably he starts to cry. 

Hot tears prickle the corners of Draco’s eyes as he curls into Harry’s flank, burying his face against the spot where the large curve of Harry’s cheek meets the corded muscle of his strong, inky neck. Draco can feel Harry’s pulse jumping beneath the impossibly soft, warm skin of his coat, seeking out the drumbeat of his heart as if to ground himself with its rhythm. 

Minutes pass and Draco feels the magic in the ground beneath his feet humming a soundless tune: an ancient whisper from centuries past, a reawakened current of power coursing along the rocks. It unsettles him, and Draco presses in closer to Harry’s warmth, needing the breadth and strength of the animal before him to keep him rooted to the present, lest he slips away with the grief of his past into the morning mist. 

He knows at that moment that such a fate is no longer acceptable for him; that his life is worth more than the grief that’s plagued him; that Gabrielle would have wanted more for him, that Harry and Scorpius and Hermione and Fleur still want more for him. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice breaking on the words. He cups his mouth with his trembling hand, shocked by the force of his emotions. But, Merlin help him, he means it; he is sorry. Sorry for the death of his beautiful wife, the months he spent slowly killing himself after she’d gone, and the time he’d lost with his precious son because he’d been too blinded by grief to realise that he still had someone who needed him just as much as he needed Gabrielle. He’s sorry he’d left Harry all those many, many, years ago without a word of closure between them before either of them had healed and he’s sorry for last night and the emotionally muddled mess he’d probably made of whatever it is they’d begun to forge together on this forgotten piece of rock in the middle of the ocean. He’s infinitely sorry. He pours all of his repressed emotion out into the coarse black hair of Harry’s mane along with his tears. The remorse and the grief and the worry seeping out of him like blood from an open wound. 

Draco’s gasping in breaths of crisp, cool air, smelling of salt and the singed crackle of magic and Harry all around him, holding Draco close, but it isn’t enough; he needs more. Before he can even press tighter into Harry’s side, Draco realises that he isn’t just feeling Harry’s magic surrounding him but Harry’s _arms_ embracing him, strong and perfect and human once more. Their heads are buried against each other’s necks and Draco can feel the firm, dry press of Harry’s lips on his throat, in a gentle, reassuring pressure. Words are mouthed against his skin, apologies and promises both, and Draco doesn’t need to hear them aloud to know their meaning. 

He allows himself to be wrapped up in Harry’s whole world, feeling his desperate need returned to him in the straining tension of Harry’s arms. Draco can’t help the sob that escapes at the relief that knowledge brings him, that he isn’t alone. He squeezes his eyes shut and nuzzles his tear-streaked face against the warm, soft skin of Harry’s neck, never wanting to move from that spot again. Inside his mind’s eye, he can see, like the sun rising over the horizon, a small flare of light awakening on the water. 

* * *

_Fin._


	2. Flying Motorbike Flashback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning scene takes place the morning of Draco's seventh day at the Sanctuary, right before Harry gives Draco a broom, and surprises them all with pulling out Sirius' old motorbike to ride to the cliffs. Charlie spies Harry in the barn cleaning the bike beforehand and confronts him about his rather Slytherin-like scheme. Harry knows what he's doing, though; he wants Draco to remember all the memories they made together on that bike. 
> 
> Written below (in great detail) is one of those memories. Enjoy.

* * *

_Harry had seen his face, he’d known where Draco’s mind had gone. Showing the bike to him was a calculated play._

. . . 

“You oiling up the old beast for a joyride?” Charlie says from the doorway of the barn. He’s backlit from the weak morning sun, his smile just barely visible when Harry looks up. 

“No,” is all Harry says. Charlie laughs at this, which drives Harry’s ire up about three notches. He slaps down the rag in his hand over the back tire, cleaning the rim of years-old, caked-on mud. 

“You had a lot of fun on that bike way back when, didn’t you?” 

“Leave it, Charlie.” 

“Should I?” Charlie has stepped into the barn now, his arms no longer jovially crossed over his chest; instead, his hands are shoved into his pockets, his shoulders tense. Harry can see the concern rippling off the man and wishes there was something he could say to deter him from this line of questioning, but he knows it’s futile. Charlie and Harry have been each other’s keepers for too long, have been too protective of the other, too close to blood brothers to ever really let things lie. “I know how you can get–”

“Ha!” Harry barks out. “Of course you do. We fucking live under the same roof.” 

“Right. We do.” 

Harry looks up at that, sees the creased frown on Charlie’s face, the tension in his eyes, and swallows hard. He stands from his crouch and moves towards him. Charlie steps back, shaking his head. “No.” 

“Charlie, shit, I didn’t—” 

“Oh, you never do, do you? You never think, you just fucking _do_.” 

This wasn’t what Harry had expected from Charlie after Draco’s arrival. He and Charlie had talked, after all. For hours that night, over too much firewhiskey and then too many cups of tea cloudy with cream, about what Draco’s presence in Harry’s life again could mean, what it _would_ mean for all of them: Charlie, Teddy, Andy, everyone. But jealousy had never been a part of the discussion. At least, not from Harry’s perspective. 

“What do you think I’m planning, Charlie?” 

It’s Charlie’s turn to laugh, and he does, loudly, before rubbing his eyes, looking so tired Harry has an urge to pull him in lest he fall down. But Charlie just shakes his head and aims a nod at the bike. “You know how he’ll react to seeing that?” 

Harry tries for a shrug but Charlie steps closer, face stern. “Don’t even try to feign ignorance, mate, I know you too damn well.” 

“Then why ask?” Harry shoots back, anger spiking. 

“Because I want you to own up to it.” 

Pushing out a breath through his nose, Harry breaks. “Fine.” 

“Fine?” 

He steps closer still, bumping Charlie with his chest. “I want him to remember it.” 

“Remember what?” Charlie says, voice soft, pained.

“Everything,” Harry whispers, mere inches from Charlie’s face.

Before Charlie can respond, Harry turns, stalking to the bike, mounting it, shoving back the kickstand, and peeling out of the barn without a second glance, leaving Charlie and his too-keen knowledge of how Harry’s mind works in the literal dust. 

Charlie’s calling out after him, but Harry can’t hear him over the roar of the engine and the racing of his own heart—the bitter taste of adrenaline thick on his tongue. He shoots into the sky, closing his eyes against the crisp sting of the morning mist, allowing it to cleanse him of his anger. 

The sun breaks free of a passing cloud. Harry feels its warmth on his face and turns towards it, chasing its heat. The engine thrums underneath him, the skies opening up above like a welcome embrace. He goes eagerly, and with his ascent a memory flashes, clear as day, of him and Draco seeking escape from the sorrows of their youth on this bike, looking for a freedom they’d yet to know. 

  
  


. . . 

  
  


It’s late August and the heavy sun is slowly disappearing behind the rooftops of London when Harry turns to Draco, hand outstretched in invitation. “Wanna ride?” 

Draco grins, and springs up from his folding chair, marching through the bramble with his head held high towards the garden shed of Grimmauld Place. Harry quickly follows, eager to fly once more on the beast of a bike Sirius had left him. Fixing it up had been such a solace to Harry the year following the war, when Harry had felt so lost he could sometimes barely breathe. The bike was his reprieve from the monotony of the day to day. Being able to share his evening rides with Draco in the months since he’d begun staying at Grimmauld Place was the true icing on the cake to Sirius’ incredible gift. 

“Behind me?” He asks Draco as he throws off the canvas cover, exposing the gleaming metal and chrome.

Draco nods and easily straddles the bike with his long legs, making a picture of himself on the leather of the seat. Harry takes a moment to openly stare, shocked at his beauty. Draco raises an arched brow. 

“Coming?” 

Shaking himself, Harry wastes no time in throwing on Sirius' old leather jacket hanging on a peg nearby and seating himself in front of Draco on the bike. He turns over the key and kicks the engine to life. The sound reverberates off the crumbling brick walls of the shed, filling their ears with the purr of the machine. 

“Ready?” he calls back over the din. Draco squeezes Harry tight around the middle and nips at his neck. 

Taking that as yes, Harry reverses the bike out of the shed and turns it for takeoff. He plucks one of Draco’s hands up from around his waist and places a single kiss on the inside of his wrist before repositioning it tight against his chest and guiding them into the darkening sky. Harry can’t help but enjoy the feeling of Draco clinging onto him like a vice as the rooftops quickly fall away beneath them. He’s a hot brand coiled around him, all power and sinew at his back. 

Just as they level out above the clouds Harry grins, a thought springing to mind. He grabs Draco’s arm and pulls. Draco squeaks, which only makes Harry smile more.

“What are you doing?” he says in Harry’s ear as Harry continues to tug until Draco’s torso is twisting around to the front of the bike, his shoulder banging into the handlebars. 

“I want you in my lap,” Harry says before kissing Draco’s lips, shocked blue from the chill of the evening air. 

He throttles the bike and wandlessly charms it to drive straight and steady before letting go of the bars, grabbing Draco from underneath his arms, and hauling him forward, long legs flailing for a moment before they wrap tightly around Harry’s waist. Harry can feel the tremble in Draco’s thighs and smiles, the spike of fear in Draco’s eyes only adding to the thrill. 

“I’d never let you fall,” Harry promises and kisses him again, warm and soft and filled with reassurance, before pulling back to watch the wind play havoc with Draco’s hair. 

Draco nods but closes his eyes just the same, holding on tight before Harry gently pushes him down onto his back, shoulders nestled in between the handlebars as they continue to fly above the clouds, chasing the summer sun as it sinks deeper in the sky.

“Feel that?” Harry asks as the engine purrs. He cups Draco’s cheek, thumb brushing over his plump mouth before he drags his hand down over Draco’s neck and puts pressure against his chest to fit the line of his spine into the smoothed curve of the bike’s graceful design. Draco arches and settles against the metal, his hips moving in a sinuous slide against Harry’s own as he relaxes into the contours of the bike, allowing its vibrations to overwhelm him just like Harry wanted. 

“I feel you,” Draco answers, eyes closing on a sigh. He shifts himself against the bulge in Harry’s jeans. Harry bites his lip and thrusts once, watching the flash of excitement cross Draco’s face. 

“I’ve wanted you like this . . . so long.” Harry is rubbing the pads of his thumbs into the dips right above Draco’s hips, fascinated by the quickly tightening fabric. He can see the thick outline of Draco’s erection against the seam of his zip, and his mouth waters at the thought of taking him like this, up here above the city, the wind in their hair, the bike’s engine alive with sound and heat beneath them. He’s weak with wanting, and before he can even swallow down his own lust he’s vanishing Draco’s clothes with barely a thought. With a blink they’re gone, and Harry stares down, shocked at his own boldness. 

Draco gasps, the chill of the air around him no doubt a shock to his system, but Harry can’t look away as Draco arches once again, shoulders pressing into the handlebars, long fingers digging into Harry’s thighs, head thrown back over the curve of the headlamp, throat exposed and skin rippling with goosebumps at the bite of the wind. His cock is hard and wet, flushed pink and laying flat against the line of his belly. Harry groans, his hands running up and down Draco’s sides, needy beyond words. 

“Fuck,” he curses, quickly losing his damn mind over the sight of Draco naked and lounged like a contented cat over the undulating curves of his beloved bike. 

“Yes,” Draco hisses, raising his head up to pierce Harry with his preternatural stare, hypnotizing and alluring beyond measure. “Fuck me.” 

“Oh shit.” Harry scrubs a hand through his hair, his mind racing. He fumbles as he rips at his belt; he can’t get his flies open fast enough when Draco’s looking at him like that. This had been his idea, but Draco has taken the reins and Harry needs desperately to catch up. 

“Want you—so fucking much,” Harry’s saying, incoherent as he pushes his pants under the swell of his balls, his cock springing free. He hisses at the chill of the wind, eyes closing at the shock, but opens them a moment later at the heat of Draco’s hand closing around him. Harry’s head falls back; he’s done for. “Fucking hell.” 

“Slick me,” Draco demands, and Harry focuses, his mind churning with the charm. He watches as Draco’s eyes flash and his hips undulate over the leather of the bike’s seat, a wicked grin crossing his face. 

“It worked?” Harry asks, and Draco nods. “Again?” Another nod. Harry concentrates and feels when the charm takes hold, this time coating the hand Draco has around Harry’s cock in warm, wet oil. “Fuck,” he breathes out, his hips moving of their own accord, unable to stop his shallow thrusts into Draco’s fist. 

“Come here,” Harry says, pulling Draco up off the handlebars and into his lap. Draco steadies himself, hovering over Harry, his wicked grin firmly in place and his white-golden hair flying in a halo all around them. 

With one arm braced tightly across Draco’s back, Harry takes his other hand and guides his cock to where he wants it most, feeling the resistant pressure, then the slow release and slide as Draco allows himself to sink down onto Harry. Draco calls out, an unnatural, inhuman cry as he throws his head back, neck tensing with the strain. He’s glorious and terrifying and perfect at that moment, and Harry drinks in the sight, feeling the engine thrumming under him and Draco hot all around him. He’s a live wire set to ignite. 

Draco looks back down, eyes fierce with want and holds Harry’s head in his hands. “Move,” he commands, “now.” 

Harry does. He thrusts upward as Draco rolls his hips, throwing a hand back against the handlebars for leverage, one arm tight about Harry’s neck as he fucks himself fast and slick on Harry’s cock. Once again, this had been Harry’s idea, but Draco is the one taking the lead and Harry, overcome with lust, is happy to be led, leaning back with an arm braced on the seat and matching Draco’s pace. 

The sun has set and stars twinkle into life as the moon rises bold and full behind them. It casts an eerie blue glow over Draco’s pearlescent skin and Harry licks his lips, wanting to drink in every moment of this experience, to savour its flavour and forever hold its tang in his mouth. 

“Come here,” he says, pulling Draco towards him and fisting his hand in his hair to guide Draco’s mouth to his. Draco meets his kiss eagerly, biting Harry’s bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth. 

“Close,” Draco breathes, breaking the kiss to nuzzle at Harry’s neck. “Fuck me harder.” 

Harry growls, his thighs trembling from exhaustion at having to work so hard with so little leverage provided by the foot pedals. He palms Draco’s arse and pulls him off, much to Draco’s dislike judging by the nails biting into Harry’s shoulders. 

“Turn around,” he says, stealing one last kiss before guiding Draco to drape his legs, one and then the other over the seat. Draco does as he’s told, graceful as ever as he lays himself forward onto the metal and leather like a damn snake coiling itself happily in someone’s lap before striking. 

Harry stares, the line of Draco’s back long and lean before him, the round, firm curve of his arse exposed and perfect, nestled between Harry’s thighs. “You’re beautiful,” he tells Draco, and Draco nods, the bastard, before arching his back, the sharp cut of his shoulder blades spiking as he holds himself up on the handlebars to look back at Harry with a wicked grin. As if to drive the point home, he licks his lips and blows Harry a kiss. 

Laughing, Harry leans in and reaches around Draco to line up his flushed cock with the warm leather of the bike’s seat. With a nip to his ear and a whispered kiss at his nape, Harry guides Draco to lay flat against the bike, trapping his cock between the engine’s vibrations and his own body. Harry hopes the sensation will drive Draco as mad as Draco’s looks are driving Harry. At the gasped hiss of Draco’s reaction, Harry grins knowingly, pressing harder with his palm against the small of Draco’s back. “Feel good?” 

“It’d feel even better with a cock inside me.” 

Harry smacks him hard, hearing the crack of his hand slapping against Draco’s arse ripple across the night sky. Draco drops his head with a groan and shifts, thrusting against the leather. “Such a bastard you are,” Harry says, rubbing his hand over where he’d struck. 

Moaning, Draco nods in agreement. “You love it.” 

“I do.” And he does. He loves it so fucking much when Draco gets mouthy. He palms Draco’s arse with both hands and spreads him, exposing him to the world around them. Draco keens beneath him, shifting helplessly against the bike, mewling like an animal in heat. 

“Fuck me, please,” he keeps repeating, lost in his need. Harry leans down, spits, and watches it land on the furl of Draco’s arse as it twitches. He rubs his thumb over it, presses in and hears Draco’s cry in response. “More!” 

“Yes,” Harry’s saying, mind fucking gone with lust. He pushes back in, fast and hot, pulling Draco’s hips against his own, and can feel the zip of magic fire up Draco’s spine, can see the spark of it explode outward into the inky sky. They both cry out as the magic flares between them and Harry falls over Draco’s back, arms encircling him, one pinching a peaked nipple, the other holding tight to Draco’s leaking cock and pumping. Draco’s hands have moved to the throttle of the bike; he keeps revving the engine, the bursts of vibration sending shocks of pleasure through both of them. They’re fucking to the rhythm of Draco controlling the bike and it’s all Harry can do not to combust from the sheer intensity of the sensation. 

“Yes, Harry. So deep. Harder.” 

Harry complies and pushes deep, thrusts faster until he’s roaring along with the bike, tipping over the knife-edge he’s been riding for the past however many minutes he’s been fucking Draco from behind. He feels the corresponding spill of Draco’s orgasm bursting out over his hand as the aftershocks rocket through him, causing his entire body to shiver with their force. He pulses inside Draco, feeling Draco contract around him, holding him deep. Harry never wants to let go. 

They’re panting, draped over the bike in a tangle of sweaty limbs. Draco reaches back, curling a hand around Harry’s denim-clad thigh, squeezing tight. Harry nods into the dip between Draco’s shoulder blades and presses a kiss against the line of his spine. He hears Draco sigh at the attention and licks a stripe of sweat off his chilled skin, watching the muscles in his back ripple in response. Harry smiles as Dravo shivers beneath him, sex-drunk and hazy as he sits up, pulling Draco with him, wrapping him up in the leather of his jacket. 

“We need to do this again,” Draco’s saying, head lolling back on Harry’s shoulder, hair tickling his chin. Harry nods, fully in agreement. “Soon.” Harry nods again and kisses Draco’s throat. 

“Anytime.” 

“Really?” 

Another nod. Another kiss. 

“We’ll be spending a lot of time on this bike then,” Draco says, reaching back to twine his long fingers through Harry’s hair. Harry practically purrs in response. 

“I’m fine with that.” 

Draco turns his head, finding Harry’s mouth and kissing him, slow and languid, savouring the moment. When he pulls back, he leaves a final kiss on Harry’s nose. “Good,” he says, swirling his hips once more and grinning.

  
  
  
Fin.

* * *

I hope this bit of PWP fluff helps to ease the sting of the angst I put these two through in the main fic. As always, thank you for reading! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to M0stlyvoid for beta'ing this piece, being the zen master of commas, and talking me through my insecurities over writing PWP without the annoying addition of feels. I appreciate you so much, beb!! Thanks again!

**Author's Note:**

> 🎵 This work is part of H/D Wireless, a song inspired, anon, Drarry fest with its home on tumblr! 
> 
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